THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


HORSE  SENSE 


Walt  Mason  is  the  Aesop  of  our  day,  but  his  fables  are  of 
men,  not  animals. 

—  Collier's  Weekly. 

Much  of  Walt  Mason's  poetry  is  of  universal  interest. 
—  London  Citizen. 

Walt  Mason's  poetry  is  in  a  class  by  itself. 

—  William  Jennings  Bryan. 

Walt's  poems  always  have  sound  morals,  and  they  are  easy 
to  take. 

—  Rev.  Charles  W.  Gordon. 
(Ralph  Connor.) 

His  satires  come  with  stinging  force  to  the  American  people. 
—  Sunday  School  Times. 

Why  do  people  ever  write  any  other  kind  of  books,  unless 
because  no  one  else  can  write  Walt  Mason's  kind? 

—  William  Dean  Howells. 

His  is  an  extraordinary  faculty,  surely  God-given.      Many 
a  'world-weary  one,  refreshed  at  the  fount  where  his  poetry 
plays,  says  deep  down  in  his  heart,  "  God  bless  Walt  Mason! " 
—  Seumas  MacManus. 

Walt  Mason's  contributions  to  the  Chronicle  have  attracted 
the  attention  of  English  readers  by  their  originality  and  ex 
pressiveness,  and  have  brought  him  letters  from  Mr.  John 
Masefield  and  many  others.  Sir  Arthur  Conan  Doyle  regards 
him  as  one  of  the  quaintest  and  most  original  humorists 
America  has  ever  produced. 

—  London  Chronicle. 


The  author  as  "Zim"  sees  him 


"HORSE  SENSE 

tR  VERSES  TENSE 

by 


Walt  Mason  is  the  High  Priest  of  Horse  Sense. 

—  George  Ade 


FOURTH    EDITION 


Chicago 
A-C  MSCLURG  &  CO 

1920 


Copyright 

A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co. 
1915 


Published  September,  1915 


Copyrighted  in  Great  Britain 

For  permission  to  use  copyright  poems  in  this  book  thanks 
are  extended  to  George  Matthew  Adams,  and  to  the  editors 
and  publishers  of  Judge,  Collier's  Weekly,  System,  the 
Magazine  of  Business,  Domestic  Engineering,  the 
Butler  Way,  and  Curtis  Service. 


W.  F.  MW.L  PRINTING  COMPANY,  CHIC»«0 


• 

^ 


To 
SIR  ARTHUR  CONAN  DOYLE 


762969 


CHRISTMAS  GIFT 

The  gift  itself  is  not  so  much  — 
Perhaps  you've  had  a  dozen  such; 
Its  value,  when  reduced  to  gold, 
May  seem  too  trifling  to  be  told; 
But  someone,  loving,  kind,  and  true, 
Selected  it  —  and  thought  of  You. 
The  gift  may  have  a  hollow  ring  — 
The  love  behind  it  is  the  thing! 


FROM  SIR  HUBERT 

I  read  Walt  Mason  with  great  delight.  His 
poems  have  wonderful  fun  and  kindliness,  and  I 
have  enjoyed  them  the  more  for  their  having  so 
strongly  all  the  qualities  I  liked  so  much  in  my 
American  friends  when  I  was  living  in  the  United 
States. 

I  don't  know  any  book  which  has  struck  me  as 
so  genuine  a  voice  of  the  American  nature. 

I  am  glad  that  his  work  is  gaining  a  wider  and 
wider  recognition. 

John  Maseficlcl 

13  Well  Walk,  Hampstead, 
London 


GUIDE  TO  CONTENTS 


At  the  Finish,  19.  At  the  End,  53.  After 
Us,  67.  Ambitions,  77.  Approach  of 
Spring,  167.  After  Storm,  188. 

B 

Backbone,  28.  Beautiful  Things,  43.  Bard  in 
the  Woods,  The,  101.  Be  Joyful,  134. 
Brown  October  Ale,  136.  Bystander, 
The,  154.  Bleak  Days,  180. 


Clucking  Hen,  The,  i.  Christmas  Recipe,  n. 
Coming  Day,  The,  21.  Cloudsf42.  Cot 
ter's  Saturday  Night,  50.  "Charge  It," 
61:  Croaker,  The,  63.  Choosing  a  Bride, 
66.  Christmas  Musings,  79.  Crooks, 
The,  115. 


D 

Doing  Things  Right,  32.    Down  and  Out,  60. 
Difference,    The,    94.      Dolorous    Way, 


zi 


The,  119.  Dreamers  and  Workers,  127. 
Deliver  Us,  137.  Doing  One's  Best,  138. 
Doughnuts,  165.  Discontent,  173. 


Fatigue,  4.  Fortune  Teller,  The,  73.  Fletch- 
erism,  158.  Father  Time,  159.  Field  Per 
ils,  1 60.  Friend  Bullsnake,  164. 


Grandmother,  14.  Great  Game,  The,  17.  Gen 
erosity,  27.  Garden  of  Dreams,  41.  Gold 
Bricks,  74.  Good  and  Evil,  135.  Going 
to  School,  146.  Girl  Graduate,  The,  153. 
Good  Die  Young,  The,  172.  Givers,  The, 
181.  Good  Old  Days,  182. 

H 

Home,  Sweet  Home,  8.  Homeless,  47.  Happy 
Home,  The,  48.  Harvest  Hand,  The, 
70.  Hospitality,  88.  Hon.  Croesus  Ex 
plains,  89. 


Looking  Forward,  120.  Little  WhiljC,  A,  139. 
Literature,  142.  Living  Too  Long,  162. 

M 

Milkman,  The,  2.  Man  Wanted,  The,  55. 
Mad  World,  A,  57.  Mariana,  91.  Men 
Behind,  The,  98.  Mr.  Chucklehead,  130. 
Misrepresentation,  148.  Man  of  Grief, 
149.  Melancholy  Days,  150.  Might  Be 
Worse,  151.  Moderately  Good,  152. 
Medicine  Hat,  156.  Moving  On,  176. 

N 

Night  is  Coming,  31.  Nursing  Grief,  143. 
Not  Worth  While,  147. 

O 

Old  Maids,  10.  Old  Man,  The,  12.  Old 
Album,  The,  109.  On  the  Bridge,  129. 
Old  Prayer,  The,  178. 


xiii 


Poor  Work,  9.  Poorhouse,  The,  30.  Procras 
tination,  36.  Punctuality,  58.  Prodigal 
Son,  The,  87.  Polite  Man,  The,  122. 
Planting  a  Tree,  126.  Passing  the  Hat, 
145- 


R 

Rural  Mail,  The,  7.    Right  Side  Up,  33. 
ular  Hours,  125.  Rain,  The,  184. 


Reg- 


Spring  Remedies,  5.  Salting  Them  Down,  22. 
Success  in  Life,  24.  Shut-In,  The,  45. 
Some  of  the  Poor,  69.  Shoveling  Coal, 
93.  Sticking  to  It,  105.  Seeing  the 
World,  121.  Spring  Sickness,  128. 
Studying  Books,  169.  Stranger  than  Fic 
tion,  171.  Silver  Threads,  174.  Some 
thing  to  Do,  185. 


Tornado,  The,  16.  True  Happiness,  26.  Tim- 
bertoes,  37.  Thankless  Job,  38.  Travelers, 
44.  Two  Salesmen,  The,  85.  "Thanks," 
107.  Tramp,  The,  117. 


u 

Undertaker,  The,  39.     Unhappy  Home,  The, 
49.    Unconquered,  123. 


Vagabond,  The,  20.    Values,  103. 

W 

Winter  Night,  13.  What's  the  Use?  54. 
What  I'd  Do,  71.  Way  of  a  Man,  The, 
82.  War  and  Peace,  112.  Wet  Weather, 
187. 


xv 


THE  CLUCKING  HEN 


r  I  ^HE  old  gray  hen  has  thirteen  chicks,  and 
*  round  the  yard  she  claws  and  picks,  and 
toils  the  whole  day  long;  I  lean  upon  the  garden 
fence,  and  watch  that  hen  of  little  sense,  whose 
intellect  is  wrong.  She  is  the  most  important  hen 
that  ever  in  the  haunts  of  men  a  waste  of  effort 
made;  she  thinks  if  she  should  cease  her  toil  the 
whole  blamed  universe  would  spoil,  its  institutions 
fade.  Yet  vain  and  trifling  is  her  task ;  she  might 
as  profitably  bask  and  loaf  throughout  the  year; 
one  incubator  from  the  store  would  bring  forth 
better  chicks  and  more  than  fifty  hens  could  rear. 
She  ought  to  rest  her  scratching  legs,  get  down 
to  tacks  and  lay  some  eggs,  which  bring  the  val 
ued  bucks;  but,  in  her  vain  perverted  way,  she 
says,  "  I'm  derned  if  I  will  lay,"  and  hands  out 
foolish  clucks.  And  many  men  are  just  the 
same;  they  play  some  idle,  trifling  game,  and 
think  they're  sawing  wood;  they  hate  the  work 
that's  in  demand,  the  jobs  that  count  they  cannot 
stand,  and  all  their  toil's  no  good. 


THE  MILKMAN 

THE  milkman  goes  his  weary  way  before 
the  rising  of  the  sun;  he  earns  a  hundred 
bones  a  day,  and  often  takes  in  less  than  one. 
While  lucky  people  snore  and  drowse,  and  bask 
in  dreams  of  rare  delight,  he  takes  a  stool  and 
milks  his  cows,  about  the  middle  of  the  night. 
If  you  have  milked  an  old  red  cow,  humped 
o'er  a  big  six-gallon  pail,  and  had  her  swat  you 
on  the  brow  with  seven  feet  of  burry  tail,  you'll 
know  the  milkman  ought  to  get  a  plunk  for 
every  pint  he  sells;  he  earns  his  pay  in  blcod 
and  sweat,  and  sorrow  in  his  bosom  dwells. 
As  through  the  city  streets  he  goes,  he  has  to 
sound  his  brazen  gong,  and  people  wake  up 
from  their  doze,  and  curse  him  as  he  goes  along. 
He  has  to  stagger  through  the  snow  when  others 
stay  at  home  and  snore;  and  through  the  rain 
he  has  to  go,  to  take  the  cow-juice  to  your  door. 
Through  storm  and  flood  and  sun  and  rain,  the 
milkman  goes  upon  the  jump,  and  all  his  cus 
tomers  complain,  and  make  allusions  to  his  pump. 
Because  one  milkman  milks  the  creek,  instead  of 
milking  spotted  cows,  against  the  whole  brave 
tribe  we  kick,  and  stir  up  everlasting  rows.  Yet 


patiently  they  go  their  way,  distributing  their 
healthful  juice,  and  what  they  do  not  get  in 
pay,  they  have  to  take  out  in  abuse. 


FATIGUE 

FROM  day  to  day  we  sell  our  whey,  our 
nutmegs,  nails  or  cotton,  and  oft  we  sigh, 
as  hours  drag  by,  "  This  sort  of  life  is  rotten! 
The  dreary  game  is  e'er  the  same,  no  respite  or 
diversion;  oh,  how  we  long  to  join  the  throng 
on  some  outdoor  excursion!  On  eager  feet, 
along  the  street,  more  lucky  folks  are  hiking, 
while  we  must  stay  and  sell  our  hay  —  it's  little 
to  our  liking!  "  Those  going  by  perhaps  will 
sigh,  "  This  work  we  do  is  brutal ;  all  day  we 
hike  along  the  pike,  and  all  our  work  is  futile. 
It  would  be  sweet  to  leave  the  street  and  own 
a  nice  trade  palace,  and  sell  rolled  oats  to 
human  goats,  it  would,  so  help  me  Alice!  "  All 
o'er  this  sphere  the  briny  tear  is  shed  by  people 
weary,  who'd  like  to  quit  their  jobs  and  flit  to 
other  tasks  more  dreary.  We  envy  folks  who 
wear  their  yokes,  and  tote  a  bigger  burden,  we 
swear  and  sweat  and  fume  and  fret,  and  oft 
forget  the  guerdon.  There  is  no  lot  entirely 
fraught  with  happiness  and  glory;  if  you  are 
sore  the  man  next  door  can  tell  as  sad  a  story. 


SPRING  REMEDIES 


THIS  is  the  time,"  the  doctors  say,  "  when 
people  need  our  bitters;  the  sunny,  lan 
guid,  vernal  day  is  hard  on  human  critters. 
They're  always  feeling  tired  and  stale,  their 
blood  is  thick  and  sluggish,  and  so  they  ought 
to  blow  their  kale  for  pills  and  potions  drug- 
gish."  And,  being  told  we're  in  a  plight,  we 
swallow  dope  in  rivers,  to  get  our  kidneys  acting 
right,  and  jack  up  rusty  livers.  We  pour  down 
tea  of  sassafras,  as  ordered  by  the  sawbones,  and 
chewing  predigested  grass,  we  exercise  our  jaw 
bones.  We  swallow  pints  of  purple  pills,  and 
fool  with  costly  drenches,  to  drive  away  imag 
ined  ills  and  pipe-dream  aches  and  wrenches. 
And  if  we'd  only  take  the  spade,  and  dig  the 
fertile  gumbo,  the  ghost  of  sickness  would  be 
laid,  and  we'd  be  strong  as  Jumbo.  Of  per 
fect  health,  that  precious  boon,  we'd  have  re 
freshing  glimpses,  if  we  would  toil  each  after 
noon  out  where  the  jimpson  jimpses.  There's 
medicine  in  azure  skies,  and  sunshine  is  a  won 
der  ;  more  cures  are  wrought  by  exercise  than  by 
all  bottled  thunder.  So  let's  forsake  the  closed 


up  room,  and  hoe  weeds  cockle-burrish,  where 
elderberry  bushes  bloom,  and  juniorberries 
flourish. 


THE  RURAL  MAIL 


A  FIERCE  and  bitter  storm's  abroad,  it  is 
a  bleak  midwinter  day,  and  slowly  o'er  the 
frozen  sod  the  postman's  pony  picks  its  way. 
The  postman  and  his  horse  are  cold,  but  fear 
lessly  they  face  the  gale;  though  storms  increase 
a  hundredfold,  the  farmer  folk  must  have  their 
mail.  The  hours  drag  on,  the  lonely  road 
grows  rougher  with  each  mile  that's  past,  the 
weary  pony  feels  its  load,  and  staggers  in  the 
shrieking  blast.  But  man  and  horse  strive  on 
the  more;  they  never  learned  such  word  as  fail; 
though  tempests  beat  and  torrents  pour,  the 
farmer  folk  must  have  their  mail.  At  night  the 
pony,  to  its  shed,  drags  on  its  cold,  exhausted 
frame;  and  after  supper,  to  his  bed,  the  wearied 
postman  does  the  same.  Tomorrow  brings  the 
same  old  round,  the  same  exhausting,  thankless 
grind  —  the  journey  over  frozen  ground,  the  fac 
ing  of  the  bitter  wind.  The  postman  does  a 
hero's  stunt  to  earn  his  scanty  roll  of  kale;  of 
all  the  storms  he  bears  the  brunt  —  the  farmer 
folk  must  have  their  mail! 


HOME,  SWEET  HOME 


OH,  Home!  It  is  a  sacred  place  —  or  was, 
in  olden  days,  before  the  people  learned 
to  chase  to  moving  picture  plays ;  to  tango  dances 
and  such  things,  to  skating  on  a  floor;  and  now 
the  youthful  laughter  rings  within  the  Home  no 
more.  You  will  recall,  old  men  and  dames, 
the  homes  of  long  ago,  and  you'll  recall  the 
fireside  games  the  children  used  to  know.  The 
neighbors'  kids  would  come  along  with  your  own 
kids  to  play,  and  merry  as  a  bridal  song  the 
evening  passed  away.  An  evening  spent  away 
from  home  in  olden  days  was  rare;  the  children 
hadn't  learned  to  roam  for  pleasure  everywhere. 
But  now  your  house  is  but  a  shell  where  chil 
dren  sleep  and  eat;  it  serves  that  purpose  very 
well  —  their  home  is  on  the  street.  Their 
home  is  where  the  lights  are  bright,  where  rag 
time  music  flows;  their  noon's  the  middle  of  the 
night,  their  friends  are  —  Lord,  who  knows  ? 
The  windows  of  your  home  are  dark,  and  silence 
broods  o'er  all ;  you  call  it  Home  —  God  save 
the  mark !  'Tis  but  a  sty  or  stall ! 


POOR  WORK 


Y 


OU  can't  afford  to  do  poor  work,  so, 
therefore,  always  shun  it;  for  no  excuse  or 
quip  or  quirk  will  square  you  when  you've  done 
it.  I  hired  a  man  to  paint  my  cow  from  horntips 
to  the  udder,  and  she's  all  blotched  and  spotted 
now,  and  people  view  and  shudder.  "  Who 
did  the  job?  "  they  always  ask;  and  when  I 
say,  "  Jim  Yellow,"  they  cry,  "  When  we  have 
such  a  task  we'll  hire  some  other  fellow."  And 
so  Jim  idly  stands  and  swows  bad  luck  has 
made  him  nervous,  for  when  the  people  paint 
their  cows  they  do  not  ask  his  service.  And 
thus  one's  reputation  flows,  a-skiting,  here  and 
yonder;  and  wheresoe'er  the  workman  goes,  his 
bum  renown  will  wander.  'Twill  face  him  like 
an  evil  ghost  when  he  his  best  is  doing,  and  jolt 
him  where  it  hurts  the  most,  and  still  keep  on 
pursuing.  A  good  renown  will  travel,  too,  from 
Gotham  to  Empory,  and  make  you  friends  in 
places  new,  and  bring  you  cash  and  glory.  So 
always  do  your  best,  old  hunks;  let  nothing  be 
neglected,  and  you  will  gather  in  the  plunks, 
and  live  and  die  respected. 


OLD  MAIDS 

ALL  girls  should  marry  when  they  can. 
There's  naught  more  useful  than  a  man. 
A  husband  has  some  faults,  no  doubt,  and  yet 
he's  good  to  have  about;  and  she  who  doesn't 
get  a  mate  will  wish  she  had  one,  scon  or  late. 
That  girl  is  off  her  base,  I  fear,  who  plans  to 
have  a  high  career,  who  sidesteps  vows  and 
wedding  rings  to  follow  after  abstract  things.  I 
know  so  many  ancient  maids  who  in  professions, 
arts  or  trades  have  tried  to  cut  a  manlike  swath, 
and  old  age  finds  them  in  the  broth.  A  lone 
liness,  as  of  the  tomb,  enshrouds  the  spinsters  in 
its  gloom;  the  jim  crow  honors  they  have  won 
they'd  sell  at  seven  cents  a  ton.  Their  sun  is 
sinking  in  the  West,  and  they,  unloved  and  un- 
caressed,  must  envy,  as  they  bleakly  roam,  the 
girl  with  husband,  hearth,  and  home.  Get  mar 
ried,  then,  Jemima  dear;  don't  fiddle  with  a 
cheap  career.  Select  a  man  who's  true  and 
good,  whose  head  is  not  composed  of  wood,  a 
man  who's  sound  in  wind  and  limb,  then  round 
him  up  and  marry  him.  Oh,  rush  him  to  the 
altar  rail,  nor  heed  his  protest  or  his  wail.  "  This 
is,"  you'll  say,  when  he's  been  won,  "  the  best 
day's  work  I've  ever  done." 


10 


CHRISTMAS  RECIPE 


somebody  happy  today!  Each 
morning  that  motto  repeat,  and  life,  that 
was  gloomy  and  gray,  at  once  becomes  pleasant 
and  sweet.  No  odds  what  direction  you  go, 
whatever  the  pathway  you  wend,  there's  some 
body  weary  of  woe,  there's  somebody  sick  for 
a  friend ;  there's  somebody  needing  a  guide,  some 
pilgrim  who's  wandered  astray;  oh,  don't  let 
your  help  be  denied  —  make  somebody  happy 
today!  There's  somebody  tired  of  the  strife, 
the  wearisome  struggle  for  bread,  borne  down 
by  the  burden  of  life,  and  envying  those  who 
are  dead;  a  little  encouragement  now  may  drive 
his  dark  visions  away,  and  smooth  out  a  seam 
from  his  brow  —  make  somebody  happy  today ! 
There's  somebody  sick  over  there,  where  sun 
light  is  shut  from  the  room;  there's  somebody 
deep  in  despair,  beholding  no  light  in  the  gloom ; 
there's  somebody  needing  your  aid,  your  solace, 
wherever  you  stray;  then  let  not  your  help  be 
delayed  —  make  somebody  happy  today.  Make 
somebody  happy  today,  some  comfort  and  sym 
pathy  give,  and  Christmas  shall  ne'er  go  away, 
but  always  and  ever  shall  live. 


11 


THE  OLD  MAN 

BE  kind  to  your  daddy,  O  gamboling  youth ; 
his  feet  are  now  sluggish  and  cold;  intent 
on  your  pleasures,  you  don't  see  the  truth,  which 
is  that  your  dad's  growing  old.  Ah,  once  he 
could  whip  forty  bushels  of  snakes,  but  now  he 
is  spavined  and  lame;  his  joints  are  all  rusty 
and  tortured  with  aches,  and  weary  and  worn 
is  his  frame.  He  toiled  and  he  slaved  like  a 
government  mule  to  see  that  his  kids  had  a 
chance;  he  fed  them  and  clothed  them  and  sent 
them  to  school,  rejoiced  when  he  marked  their 
advance.  The  landscape  is  moist  with  the  bil 
lows  of  sweat  he  cheerfully  shed  as  he  toiled, 
to  bring  up  his  children  and  keep  out  of  debt, 
and  see  that  the  home  kettle  boiled.  He  dressed 
in  old  duds  that  his  Mary  and  Jake  might  bloom 
like  the  roses  in  June,  and  oft  when  you  swal 
lowed  your  porterhouse  steak,  your  daddy  was 
chewing  a  prune.  And  now  that  he's  worn  by 
his  burden  of  care,  just  show  you  are  worth  all 
he  did;  look  out  for  his  comfort,  and  hand  him 
his  chair,  and  hang  up  his  slicker  and  lid. 


WINTER  NIGHT 

T  TAIL.  Winter  and  wild  weather,  when  we 
*•  *  are  all  together,  about  the  glowing  fire! 
Let  frost  be  e'er  so  stinging,  it  can't  disturb  our 
singing,  nor  can  the  Storm  King's  ire.  The 
winds  may  madly  mosey,  they  only  make  more 
cozy  the  home  where  we  abide;  the  snow  may 
drift  in  billows,  but  we  have  downy  pillows,  and 
good  warm  beds  inside.  The  night  indeed  has 
terrors  for  lonely,  lost  wayfarers  who  for  assist 
ance  call ;  who  pray  for  lights  to  guide  them  — 
the  lights  that  are  denied  them  —  may  God 
protect  them  all!  And  to  the  poor  who  grovel 
in  wretched  hut  and  hovel,  and  feel  its  icy 
breath,  who  mark  the  long  hours  dragging  their 
footsteps  slow  and  lagging,  the  night  seems  kin 
to  Death.  For  cheery  homes  be  grateful,  when 
Winter,  fierce  and  fateful,  comes  shrieking  in 
the  night;  for  books  and  easy  rockers,  for  larders 
filled  and  lockers,  and  all  the  warmth  and  light. 


GRANDMOTHER 

OLD  granny  sits  serene  and  knits  and  talks 
of  bygone  ages,  when  she  was  young;  and 
from  her  tongue  there  comes  the  truth  of  sages. 
"  In  vanished  years,"  she  says,  "  my  dears,  the 
girls  were  nice  and  modest,  and  they  were  shy, 
and  didn't  try  to  see  whose  wit  was  broadest. 
In  cushioned  nooks  they  read  their  books,  and 
loved  the  poets'  lilting;  with  eager  paws  they 
helped  their  mas  at  cooking  and  at  quilting. 
The  maidens  then  would  shy  at  men  and  keep 
them  at  a  distance,  and  each  new  sport  who 
came  to  court  was  sure  to  meet  resistance.  The 
girls  were  flowers  that  bloomed  in  bowers  re 
mote  from  worldly  clamor,  and  when  I  view  the 
modern  crew  they  give  me  katzen jammer.  The 
girls  were  sweet  and  trim  and  neat,  as  fair  as 
hothouse  lilies,  and  when  I  scan  the  modern  clan 
I  surely  have  the  willies.  Refinement  fades 
when  modem  maids  come  forth  in  all  their  glory ; 
their  hats  are  freaks,  their  costume  shrieks,  their 
nerve  is  hunkydory.  They  waste  the  night  and 
in  daylight  they're  doctoring  and  drugging;  when 
they  don't  go  to  picture  show,  they're  busy 
bunny -hugging."  Then  granny  takes  her  pipe 


14 


and  breaks  some  plug  tobacco  in  it,  and  smokes 
and  smokes  till  mother  chokes  and  runs  out 
doors  a  minute. 


J5 


THE  TORNADO 

WE  people  infesting  this  excellent  planet 
emotions  of  pride  in  our  victories  feel; 
we  put  up  our  buildings  of  brick  and  of  gran 
ite,  equip  them  with  trusses  and  bastions  of  steel. 
Regarding  the  fruit  of  our  earnest  endeavor,  we 
cheerily  boast  as  we  weave  through  the  town: 
"  A  building  like  that  one  will  stand  there  for 
ever,  for  fire  can't  destroy  it  nor  wind  blow  it 
down."  Behold,  as  we're  boasting  there  falls 
a  dun  shadow ;  the  harvester  Death  is  abroad  for 
his  sheaves,  and,  tumbled  and  tossed  by  the 
roaring  tornado,  the  man  and  his  building  are 
crumpled  like  leaves.  And  then  there  are  dead 
men  in  windrows  to  shock  us,  and  scattered  and 
gone  are  the  homes  where  they  died ;  a  pathway 
of  ruin  and  wreckage  to  mock  us,  and  show  us 
how  futile  and  vain  is  our  pride.  We're  apt  to, 
when  planning  and  building  and  striving,  forget 
we  are  mortals  and  think  we  are  gods;  and  then 
when  the  lord  of  the  tempest  is  driving,  his 
wheels  break  us  up  with  the  rest  of  the  clods. 
Like  ants  we  are  busy,  all  proud  and  defiant, 
constructing  a  home  on  the  face  of  the  lawn; 
and  now  comes  the  step  of  a  wandering  giant; 
it  crushes  our  anthill,  and  then  it  is  gone. 


16 


THE  GREAT  GAME 


PHE  pitcher  is  pitching,  the  batsman  is  itch- 
*  ing  to  punish  the  ball  in  the  old-fashioned 
way;  the  umpire  is  umping,  the  fielders  are 
humping  —  we're  playing  baseball  in  our  vil 
lage  today!  Two  thousand  mad  creatures  are 
perched  on  the  bleachers,  the  grand  stand  is  full 
and  the  fences  the  same,  the  old  and  the  youth 
ful,  the  false  and  the  truthful,  the  plain  and 
the  lovely  are  watching  the  game.  The  groan 
ing  taxpayers  are  watching  the  players,  forget 
ting  a  while  all  their  burdens  and  wrongs,  and 
landlord  and  tenant  are  saying  the  pennant  will 
come  to  this  town  where  it  surely  belongs.  The 
lounger  and  toiler,  the  spoiled  and  the  spoiler, 
are  whooping  together  like  boys  at  the  fair;  and 
foes  of  long  standing  as  one  are  demanding  the 
blood  of  the  umpire,  his  hide  and  his  hair.  The 
game  is  progressing,  now  punk  and  distressing  — 
our  boys  are  all  rattled,  the  audience  groans! 
But  see  how  they  rally  —  O,  scorer,  keep  tally ! 
We'll  win  at  the  finish,  I'll  bet  seven  bones! 
The  long  game  is  ended,  we  fans  have  all 
wended  back,  back  to  our  labors,  our  cares  and 


17 


our  joys,  once  more  grave  and  steady  —  and 
yet  ever  ready  to  stake  a  few  plunks  on  our  own 
bunch  of  boys! 


ling  called 

while?     We  seek  it  till 

we're  old  and  lame,  for  weary  mile  on  mile; 
we  seek  a  gem  among  the  hay,  for  wheat  among 
the  chaff;  and  in  the  end  some  heartless  jay 
will  write  our  epitaph.  The  naked  facts  it  will 
relate,  and  little  else  beside:  "This  man  was 
born  on  such  a  date,  on  such  a  date  he  died." 
The  gravestones  in  the  boneyard  tell  all  we  shall 
ever  know  of  men  who  struggled  passing  well 
for  glory,  long  ago.  They  had  their  iridescent 
schemes  and  lived  to  see  them  fail;  they  had 
their  dreams,  as  you  have  dreams,  and  all  of  no 
avail.  The  gravestones  calmly  tell  their  fate, 
the  upshot  of  their  pride:  "This  man  was 
born  on  such  a  date,  on  such  a  date  he  died." 
The  great  men  of  your  fathers'  time,  with  laurel 
on  each  brow,  the  theme  of  every  poet's  rhyme 
—  where  are  those  giants  now?  Their  names 
are  written  in  the  books  which  no  one  ever  reads; 
and  on  the  scroll  —  where  no  one  looks  —  the 
record  of  their  deeds.  The  idler  by  the  church 
yard  gate  this  legend  hath  espied:  "  This  man 
was  born  on  such  a  date,  on  such  a  date  he 
died." 


19 


H 


THE  VAGABOND 


E'S  idle,  unsteady,  and 


everyone  s  r 
dornick  or   give  him   a 

biff;  he's  always  in  tatters,  but  little  it  matters; 
he's  evermore  happy,  so  what  is  the  diff?  He 
carries  no  sorrow,  no  care  for  tomorrow,  his 
roof  is  the  heavens,  his  couch  is  the  soil ;  no  sigh 
ing  or  weeping  breaks  in  on  his  sleeping,  no  bell 
in  the  morning  shall  call  him  to  toil.  As  free 
as  the  breezes  he  goes  where  he  pleases,  no  rude 
overseer  to  boss  him  around;  his  joys  do  not 
wither,  he  goes  yon  and  hither,  till  dead  in  a 
haystack  or  ditch  he  is  found.  The  joys  of 
such  freedom  —  no  sane  man  can  need  'em ! 
Far  better  to  toil  for  the  kids  and  the  wife,  till 
muscles  are  aching  and  collarbone  breaking,  than 
selfishly  follow  the  vagabond  life.  One  laborer 
toiling  is  worth  the  whole  boiling  of  idlers  and 
tramps  of  whatever  degree;  and  though  we  all 
know  it  we  don't  find  a  poet  embalming  the  fact 
as  embalmed  it  should  be.  The  poets  will 
chortle  about  the  blithe  mortal  who  wanders  the 
highways  and  sleeps  in  the  hay,  but  who  sings 
the  toiler,  the  sweat-spangled  moiler,  who  raises 
ten  kids  on  a  dollar  a  day? 


THE  COMING  DAY 


THERE'LL  come  a  day  when  we  must 
make  full  payment  for  all  the  foolish  things 
we  do  today;  and  sackcloth  then  perchance  will 
be  our  raiment,  and  we'll  regret  the  hours  we 
threw  away.  We  loaf  today,  and  we  shall  loaf 
tomorrow,  hard  by  the  pump  or  in  the  corner 
store;  there'll  come  a  day  when  we'll  look  back 
with  sorrow  on  wasted  hours,  the  hours  that 
come  no  more.  We  say  harsh  things  to  friends 
who  look  for  kindness,  and  bring  the  tears  to 
loving,  patient  eyes;  we  scold  and  quarrel  in 
our  fretful  blindness,  instead  of  smiles,  we  call 
up  mournful  sighs.  Our  friends  will  tread  the 
path  that  leads  us  only  to  rest  and  silence  in 
the  grass-grown  grave;  there'll  come  a  day  when 
weary,  sad  and  lonely,  we'll  think  of  them  and 
of  the  wounds  we  gave.  In  marts  of  trade  we're 
prone  to  overreaching,  to  swell  our  roll  we  cheat 
and  deal  in  lies,  forgetful  oft  of  early  moral 
teaching,  and  all  the  counsel  of  the  good  and 
wise.  It  is,  alas,  an  evil  road  we  travel,  that 
leads  at  last  to  bitterness  and  woe;  there'll  come 
a  day  when  gold  will  seem  as  gravel,  and  we 
shall  mourn  the  sins  of  long  ago. 


21 


SALTING  THEM  DOWN 

P HERE'S  trouble  in  store  for  the  gent  who 
•*•  never  salts  down  a  red  cent,  who  looks  upon 
cash  as  the  veriest  trash,  for  foolish  extravagance 
meant.  Since  money  comes  easy  today,  he  thinks 
'twill  be  always  that  way,  and  he  burns  up  the 
scads  with  the  rollicking  lads  and  warbles  a 
madrigal  gay.  His  dollars  are  drawn  when 
they're  due;  and  rather  than  salt  down  a  few, 
he  throws  them,  with  jests,  at  the  robin  red 
breasts,  with  riotous  hullabaloo.  I  look  down 
the  scurrying  years  —  for  I'm  the  descendant  of 
seers  —  and  the  spendthrift  descry  when  his 
youth  is  gone  by,  an  object  of  pity  and  tears.  I 
see  him  parading  the  street,  on  weary  and  ring- 
boney  feet,  a-begging  for  dimes,  for  the  sake  of 
old  times,  to  buy  him  some  sauerkraut  to  eat. 
I  see  him  abandoned  and  sick,  his  pillow  a  dor- 
nick  or  brick;  and  the  peeler  comes  by  with  a 
vulcanized  eye  and  swats  him  for  luck  with  a 
stick.  I  see  him  when  dying;  he  groans,  but  his 
anguish  for  nothing  atones!  And  they  cart  him 
away  in  the  dawn  cold  and  gray,  to  the  place 
where  they  bury  cheap  bones.  Don't  burn  up 


your  money,  my  friend;  don't  squander  or  fool 
ishly  lend;  though  you  say  it  is  dross  and  regret 
not  its  loss,  it's  a  comfort  and  staff  in  the  end. 


~'S  easy  to  be  a  success,  as  thousands  of 
winners  confess;  no  man's  so  obscure  or  un 
lucky  or  poor  that  he  can't  be  a  winner,  I  guess. 
And  success,  Mr.  Man,  doesn't  mean  a  roll 
that  would  stagger  a  queen,  or  some  gems  of 
your  own,  or  a  palace  of  stone,  or  a  wagon  that 
burns  gasoline.  A  man's  a  success,  though  re 
nown  doesn't  place  on  his  forehead  a  crown, 
if  he  pays  as  he  goes,  if  it's  true  that  he  owes 
not  a  red  in  the  dod-gasted  town.  A  man's  a 
success  if  his  wife  finds  comfort  and  pleasure  in 
life;  if  she's  glad  and  content  that  she  married 
a  gent  reluctant  to  organize  strife.  A  man's  a 
success  if  his  kids  are  joyous  as  Katy  H.  Dids; 
if  they're  handsome  and  neat,  with  good  shoes 
on  their  feet,  and  roses  and  things  on  their  lids. 
A  man's  a  success  if  he  tries  to  be  honest  and 
kindly  and  wise;  if  he's  slow  to  repeat  all  the 
lies  he  may  meet,  if  he  swats  both  the  scandals 
and  flies.  I  know  when  old  Gaffer  Pete  Gray 
one  morning  was  taken  away,  by  Death,  lan- 
tern-jowled,  the  whole  village  howled,  and 
mourned  him  for  many  a  day.  Yet  he  was  so 


24 


poor 
he  tried 
he  was 


TRUE  HAPPINESS 

WHEN  torrents  are  pouring  or  tempests 
are  roaring  how  pleasant  and  cheerful  is 
home!  To  sit  by  the  winder  all  drier  than  tin 
der  and  watch  the  unfortunates  roam!  With 
glad  eyes  to  follow  the  fellows  who  wallow 
around  in  the  rain  or  the  sleet,  to  watch  them 
a-slipping  and  sliding  and  tripping,  and  falling 
all  over  the  street !  There's  nothing  so  soothing, 
so  apt  to  be  smoothing  the  furrows  of  grief  from 
your  brow,  as  sitting  and  gazing  at  folks  who  are 
raising  out  there  in  the  mud  such  a  row!  To 
watch  a  mad  neighbor  through  hurricane  labor, 
while  you  are  all  snug  by  the  fire,  to  see  him 
cavorting  and  pawing  and  snorting  —  what 
more  could  a  mortal  desire?  I  love  storm  and 
blizzard  from  A  clear  to  Izzard,  I'm  fond  of 
the  sleet  and  the  rain;  let  winter  get  busy  and 
whoop  till  he's  dizzy,  and  I'll  be  the  last  to 
complain.  For  there  is  a  casement  just  over  the 
basement  where  I  in  all  comfort  may  sit,  and 
watch  people  wading  through  mud  or  parading 
through  snow  till  they  fall  in  a  fit. 


GENEROSITY 

OLD  Kink's  always  willing  to  preach,  and 
hand  out  wise  counsel  and  teach;  but  ask 
him  for  aid  when  you're  hungry  and  frayed,  and 
he'll  stick  to  his  wad  like  a  leech.  He's  handy 
with  proverb  and  text  to  comfort  the  needy  and 
vexed;  but  when  there's  a  plan  to  feed  indigent 
man,  old  Kink  never  seems  to  get  next.  He'll 
help  out  the  widow  with  psalms,  and  pray  for 
her  fatherless  lambs;  but  he  never  would  try  to 
bring  joy  to  her  eye  with  codfish  and  sauerkraut 
and  hams.  On  Sunday  he  joins  in  the  hymn, 
and  makes  the  responses  with  vim;  when  they 
pass  round  the  box  for  the  worshipers'  rocks,  his 
gift  is  exceedingly  slim.  He  thinks  he  is  fooling 
the  Lord  and  is  sure  of  a  princely  reward  when 
to  heaven  he  goes  at  this  life's  journey's  close  — 
with  which  view  I  am  not  in  accord.  For  the 
Lord,  he  is  wise  to  gold  bricks,  and  the  hum 
bug  who  crosses  the  Styx  will  have  to  be  sharp 
if  he  captures  a  harp;  St.  Peter  will  say  to  him, 
"  Nix!  "  They  size  up  a  man  nearly  right 
when  he  comes  to  the  portals  of  light;  and  no 
stingy  old  fraud  ever  hornswoggled  God  or  put 
on  a  robe  snowy  white. 


27 


BACKBONE 

FROM  Yuba  Dam  to  Yonkers  the  man  of 
backbone  conquers,  where  spineless  critters 
fail;  all  obstacles  o'ercoming,  he  goes  along 
a-humming,  and  gathers  fame  and  kale.  No 
ghosts  of  failure  haunt  him,  no  grisly  bogies 
daunt  him  or  make  his  spirits  low;  you'll  find  him 
scratching  gravel  wherever  you  may  travel,  from 
Butte  to  Broken  Bow.  From  Winnipeg  to 
Wooster  you'll  see  this  cheerful  rooster,  this 
model  to  all  men;  undaunted  by  reverses  he 
wastes  no  time  in  curses,  but  digs  right  in  again. 
His  face  is  always  shining  though  others  be  re 
pining;  you  cannot  keep  him  down;  his  trail  is 
always  smoking  while  cheaper  men  are  croaking 
about  the  old  dead  town.  From  Humboldt  to 
Hoboken  he  leaves  his  sign  and  token  in  buildings 
high  and  grand;  in  factories  that  flourish,  in 
industries  that  nourish  a  tired,  anaemic  land.  He 
brings  the  work  to  toilers  and  fills  with  bread 
and  broilers  their  trusty  dinner  pails;  he  keeps 
the  ripsaw  ripping,  the  big  triphammer  tripping, 
the  workman  driving  nails.  All  honor  to  his 
noblets!  We  drink  to  him  in  goblets  of  grape- 


28 


juice  rich  and  red  —  the  man  of  spine  and  giz 
zard  who  hustles  like  a  blizzard  and  simply 
won't  be  dead! 


THE  POORHOUSE 


THE  poorhouse,  naked,  grim,  and  bare, 
stands  in  a  valley  low;  and  most  of  us  are 
headed  there  as  fast  as  we  can  go.  The  paupers 
sit  behind  the  gate,  a  solemn  thing  to  see,  and 
there  all  patiently  they  wait,  they  wait  for  you 
and  me.  We  come,  we  come,  O  sad-eyed 
wrecks,  we're  coming  with  a  will!  We're  all 
in  debt  up  to  our  necks,  and  going  deeper  still! 
We're  buying  things  we  can't  afford,  and  mock 
the  old  time  way  of  salting  down  a  little  hoard 
against  the  rainy  day!  No  more  afoot  the  poor 
man  roams;  in  gorgeous  car  he  scoots;  we've 
mortgages  upon  our  homes,  our  furniture,  our 
boots.  We've  banished  all  the  ancient  cares,  we 
paint  the  country  red,  we  live  like  drunken  mil 
lionaires,  and  never  look  ahead.  The  paupers, 
on  the  poorhouse  lawn,  are  waiting  in  a  group; 
they  know  we'll  all  be  there  anon,  to  share  their 
cabbage  soup ;  they  see  us  in  our  costly  garb,  and 
say:  "  Their  course  is  brief;  we  see  the  har 
bingers  that  harb  of  bankruptcy  and  grief."  Be 
patient,  paupers,  for  a  span,  ye  friendless  men 
and  dames!  We're  coming,  blithely  as  we  can, 
to  join  you  in  your  games! 


30 


NIGHT  IS  COMING 


W 


HILE  the  blessed  daylight  lingers,  let  us 
work  with  might  and  main,  with  our 
busy  feet  and  fingers,  also  with  the  busy  brain; 
let  the  setting  sun  behold  us  tired,  but  filled  with 
honest  pride;  for  the  night  will  soon  enfold  us, 
when  we  lay  our  tools  aside.  When  we're  in  the 
churchyard  lonely,  where  the  weeping  willows 
lean,  there's  one  thing  and  one  thing  only  that 
will  keep  our  memory  green.  If  we  did  the 
tasks  appointed  as  we  lived  our  speeding  years, 
then  our  graves  will  be  anointed  with  a  mourning 
legion's  tears.  All  our  good  intentions  perish 
when  is  closed  the  coffin  lid,  and  the  world  will 
only  cherish  and  remember  what  we  did.  Noth 
ing  granite,  monumental,  can  preserve  your  little 
fame;  epitaphs  are  incidental,  and  will  not 
embalm  your  name.  Nothing  counts  when  you 
are  sleeping,  but  the  goodly  work  you've  done; 
that  will  last  till  gods  are  weeping  round  the 
ruins  of  the  sun.  Let  no  obstacles  confound  us, 
let  us  work  till  day  is  o'er;  soon  the  night  will 
gather  round  us,  when  we'll  sleep  to  work  no 
more. 


DOING  THINGS  RIGHT 


might  — 
pasted  that 

ought  to. 

To  do  things  right,  as  leads  your  light,  with  faith 
and  hope  abiding;  to  do  your  best  and  let  the 
rest  to  Jericho  go  sliding!  With  such  an  aim 
you'll  win  the  game  and  see  your  fortune 
founded;  and  goodly  deed  beats  any  creed  that 
ever  man  expounded.  To  do  things  right,  to 
bravely  fight,  when  fate  cuts  up  unfairly,  to  pay 
your  way  from  day  to  day,  and  treat  your  neigh 
bor  squarely!  That  doctrine  fills  all  wants  and 
stills  the  doubter's  qualms  and  terrors,  and  guides 
him  straight  at  goodly  gait  through  all  the  field 
of  errors.  To  do  your  best,  within  your  breast 
a  cheerful  heart  undaunted  —  that  is  the  plan 
that  brings  a  man  all  things  he  ever  wanted.  At 
finding  snares  and  nests  of  mares  I  am  not  very 
handy;  but  when  it  comes  to  finding  plums  folks 
say  I  am  a  dandy;  and  my  receipt  is  short  and 
sweet,  an  easy  one  to  follow ;  just  do  things  right, 
with  all  your  might  —  it  beats  all  others  hollow ! 


32 


RIGHT  SIDE  UP 

H HOUGH  now  and  then  our  feet  descend 
•1  to  byways  of  despair,  we  nearly  always  in 
the  end  land  right  side  up  with  care.  I've  seen 
a  thousand  frenzied  guys  declare  that  all  was 
lost,  there  was  no  hope  beneath  the  skies,  this 
life  was  but  a  frost.  And  then  next  year  I'd 
see  them  scoot  around  in  motor  cars,  each  one  a- 
holding  in  his  snoot  the  richest  of  cigars.  I've 
seen  men  at  the  wailing  place  declare  they  were 
undone ;  no  more  the  cold  world  could  they  face, 
their  course,  they  said,  was  run.  Again  I'd  see 
them  prance  along,  all  burbling  with  delight; 
whatever  in  their  lives  was  wrong,  became  at  last 
all  right.  And  so  it's  foolishness,  my  friend,  to 
weep  or  tear  your  hair ;  we  nearly  always,  in  the 
end,  land  right  side  up  with  care.  Some  call  it 
luck,  some  providence,  and  some  declare  it  fate; 
but  there's  a  kind,  o'er  ruling  sense  that  makes 
our  tangles  straight;  and  there  are  watchful  eyes 
that  mark  our  movements  as  we  roam;  a  hand 
extended  in  the  dark  to  guide  us  safely  home.  In 
what  direction  do  you  wend?  You'll  find  the 
helper  there;  we  nearly  always,  in  the  end,  land 
right  side  up  with  care. 


33 


panes, 

and  the  cold's  so  fierce  that  it  seems  to  pierce 
right  into  your  bones  and  veins,  then  it's  sweet  to 
sit  by  the  fire  and  knit,  and  think,  while  the 
needles  clank,  of  the  iron  men,  of  the  shining 
yen,  you  have  in  the  village  bank !  When  you've 
lost  your  job  and  misfortunes  rob  your  face  of 
its  wonted  grin,  when  the  money  goes  for  your 
grub  and  clothes,  though  there's  nothing  coming 
in;  when  the  fates  are  rough  and  they  kick  and 
cuff  and  give  you  a  frequent  spank,  how  sweet 
to  think  of  the  bunch  of  chink  you  have  in  the 
village  bank!  When  you're  gray  and  old  and 
your  feet  are  cold,  and  the  night  is  drawing  on; 
when  you're  tired  and  weak  and  your  joints  all 
creak,  and  the  strength  of  youth  is  gone;  when 
you  watch  and  wait  at  the  sunset  gate  for  the 
boatman  grim  and  lank,  oh,  it's  nice  to  know 
there's  a  roll  of  dough  all  safe  in  the  village 
bank !  The  worst,  my  friend,  that  the  fates  can 
send,  is  softened 


you 


yours  it  you 


have  the  coin  on  ice  —  the  best  of  all 
healthy  wad  is  your  staff  and 


34 


rod  when  the  luck  seems  tough  and  rank;  your 
consolers  then  are  the  iron  men  you  have  in  the 
village  bank! 


PROCRASTINATION 

YOU  are  merely  storing  sorrow  for  the 
future,  sages  say,  if  you  put  off  till  tomor 
row  things  which  should  be  done  today.  When 
there  is  a  job  unpleasant  that  it's  up  to  me  to  do, 
I  attack  it  in  the  present,  give  a  whoop  and  push 
it  through;  then  my  mind  is  free  from  troubles, 
and  I  sit  before  the  fire  popping  corn  or  blowing 
bubbles,  or  a -whanging  at  my  lyre.  If  I  said: 
"  There  is  no  hurry  —  that  old  job  will  do  next 
week,"  there  would  be  a  constant  worry  making 
my  old  brain-pan  creak.  For  a  man  knows  no 
enjoyment  resting  at  the  close  of  day,  if  he  knows 
that  some  employment  is  neglected  in  that  way. 
There  is  nothing  more  consoling  at  the  setting  of 
the  sun,  when  the  evening  bells  are  tolling,  than 
the  sense  of  duty  done.  And  that  solace  cometh 
never  to  the  man  of  backbone  weak  who  post 
pones  all  sane  endeavor  till  the  middle  of  next 
week.  Let  us  then  be  up  and  doing,  with  a  heart 
for  any  fate,  as  the  poet  said,  when  shooing 
agents  from  his  garden  gate.  Let  us  shake  our 
selves  and  borrow  wisdom  from  the  poet's  lay; 
leaving  nothing  for  tomorrow,  doing  all 
chores  today! 


TIMBERTOES 

OLD  GOMER,  of  a  Kansas  town,  was 
never  known  to  wear  a  frown,  or  for  man's 
pity  beg,  although  he  stumps  along  his  way,  and 
does  his  work  from  day  to  day,  upon  a  wooden 
leg.  And  every  time  he  goes  out  doors  he  meets 
some  peevish  guy  who  roars  about  his  evil  luck; 
some  fretful  gent  with  leg  of  flesh  who,  when 
vicissitudes  enmesh,  proceeds  to  run  amuck. 
Strong  men  with  legs  of  flesh  and  bone  just  stand 
around  the  streets  and  groan,  while  Gomer  pegs 
along  and  puts  up  hay  the  long  hours  through, 
and  sounds  his  joyous  whoopsydo,  and  makes 
his  life  a  song.  Old  Corner  never  sits  and  broods 
or  seeks  the  hermit's  solitudes  to  fill  the  air  with 
sighs ;  there's  no  despondency  in  him !  He  brags 
about  that  basswood  limb  as  though  it  were  a 
prize.  Sometimes  I'm  full  of  woe  and  grief, 
convinced  the  world  brings  no  relief  until  a  man 
is  dead;  and  as  I  wail  that  things  are  wrong  I 
see  old  Gomer  hop  along  and  then  I  soak  my 
head.  I've  noticed  that  the  men  who  growl,  the 
ones  who  storm  around  and  howl  o'er  fate's 
unwise  decrees,  are  mostly  Fortune's  special  pets ; 
and  then  the  man  who  never  frets  is  one  with 
red  elm  knees. 


37 


T 


THE  THANKLESS  JOB 

HERE'S  nothing  but  tears  for  the  man 
who  steers  our  ship  o'er  the  troubled  sea; 
there's  nothing  but  grief  for  the  nation's  chief, 
whoever  that  chief  may  be.  Whatever  he  does, 
he  can  hear  the  buzz  of  critics  as  thick  as  flies; 
and  all  of  his  aims  are  sins  and  shames,  and 
nothing  he  does  is  wise.  There's  nothing  but 
kicks  for  the  man  who  sticks  four  years  to  the 
White  House  chair;  and  his  stout  heart  aches 
and  his  wishbone  breaks  and  he  loses  most  of  his 
hair.  There's  nothing  but  growls  and  the  knock 
ers'  howls,  and  the  spiteful  slings  and  slams ;  and 
the  vile  cartoons  and  the  dish  of  prunes  and  a 
chorus  of  tinkers'  dams.  Oh,  we  humble  skates 
in  our  low  estates,  who  fuss  with  our  garden  sass, 
should  view  the  woes  of  the  men  who  rose  above 
and  beyond  the  mass,  and  be  glad  today  that  we 
go  our  way  mid  quiet  and  peaceful  scenes; 
should  thankfully  take  the  hoe  and  rake,  and 
wrestle  with  spuds  and  greens ! 


38 


w 


THE  UNDERTAKER 


HEN  life  is  done  —  this 


id  frets  us,  this  life  so  full  of  tears 
doubts  and  dreads  —  the  undertaker  comes  along 
and  gets  us,  and  tucks  us  neatly  in  our  little  beds. 
When  we  are  done  with  toiling,  hoarding,  giving, 
when  we  are  done  with  drawing  checks  and 
breath,  he  comes  to  show  us  that  the  cost  of 
living  cuts  little  ice  beside  the  cost  of  death.  I 
meet  him  daily  in  the  street  or  alley,  a  cheerful 
man,  he  dances  and  he  sings;  and  we  exchange 
the  buoyant  jest  and  sally,  and  ne'er  discourse 
of  grim,  unpleasant  things.  We  talk  of  crops, 
the  campaign  and  the  weather,  the  I.  and  R., 
the  trusts  —  this  nation's  curse ;  no  graveyard 
hints  while  we  converse  together,  no  reference  to 
joyrides  in  a  hearse.  And  yet  I  feel  —  per 
chance  it  is  a  blunder  —  that  as  I  stand  there, 
rugged,  hale  and  strong,  he'd  like  to  ask  me: 
"  Comrade,  why  in  thunder  and  other  things,  do 
you  hang  on  so  long?  "  When  I  complain  of 
how  the  asthma  tightens  upon  my  lungs,  and 
makes  me  feel  a  wreck,  it  seems  to  me  his  face 
with  rapture  lightens,  smiles  stretch  his  lips  and 
wind  around  his  neck.  And  when  I  say  I'm 


feeling  like  a  heifer  turned  out  to  grass,  or  like  a 
hummingbird,  he  heaves  a  sigh  as  gentle  as  a 
zephyr,  yet  fraught  with  pain  and  grief  and  hope 
deferred. 


40 


GARDEN  OF  DREAMS 

IN  THE  garden  of  dreams  let  me  rest,  far,  far 
from  the  laboring  throng,  from  the  moans  of 
the  tired  and  distressed,  from  the  strains  of  the 
conqueror's  song.  As  a  native  of  Bagdad,  or 
Turk,  I'd  live  in  Arabian  nights,  away  from  the 
regions  of  work,  from  troubles  and  hollow  de 
lights.  In  the  garden  of  dreams  I  would  stray, 
and  bother  my  fat  head  no  more,  a-wondering 
how  I  shall  pay  for  groceries  bought  at  the  store. 
Ah,  there  in  that  garden  I'd  sit,  communing  in 
peace  with  my  soul,  and  never  again  have  a  fit 
when  handed  the  bill  for  the  coal.  In  the  gar 
den  of  dreams  I'd  recline  and  soar  on  the  wings 
of  romance,  forgetting  this  old  hat  of  mine,  the 
patches  all  over  my  pants,  the  clamor  of  children 
for  shoes,  the  hausfrau's  demands  for  a  gown, 
the  lodge's  exorbitant  dues,  the  polltax  to  work 
in  the  town.  Alas!  It  is  as  I  supposed  — 
there  is  no  escaping  my  fate,  for  the  garden  of 
dreams  has  been  closed,  a  padlock  is  fixed  on  the 
gate.  The  young,  who  are  buoyant  and  glad, 
may  enter  that  garden,  it  seems ;  but  the  old,  who 
are  weary  and  sad,  are  warned  from  the  garden 
of  dreams ! 


41 


CLOUDS 


IF  EVERY  day  was  sunny,  with  ne'er  a  cloud 
in  view,  we'd  soon  be  spending  money  to  buy 
a  cloud  or  two.  It  always  makes  me  weary 
when  people  say:  "  Old  boy,  may  all  your  days 
be  cheery  and  bright  and  full  of  joy!  "  If  all 
my  days  were  sunny,  existence  would  seem  flat; 
if  I  were  fed  on  honey  I'd  soon  get  sick  of  that. 
I  like  a  slice  of  sorrow  to  hold  me  down  today, 
for  that  will  make  tomorrow  seem  fifty  times 
as  gay.  A  little  dose  of  sickness  won't  make 
me  whine  or  yell;  'twill  emphasize  the  slickness 
of  life  when  I  am  well.  A  little  siege  of  trouble 
won't  put  my  hopes  in  pawn,  for  I'll  be  trotting 
double  with  joy  when  it  is  gone.  Down  there  in 
tropic  regions  where  sunshine  gleams  all  day,  the 
fat  and  lazy  legions  just  sleep  their  lives  away; 
there  every  idle  bumpkin  who  in  the  sunshine 
lies,  lives  like  a  yellow  pumpkin,  and  like  a 
squash  he  dies.  I  want  my  share  of  changes, 
my  share  of  ups  and  downs;  I  want  a  life  that 
ranges  from  crosses  up  to  crowns. 


42 


BEAUTIFUL  THINGS 


T 


beautiful  things  are  the  things  w 
y  are  not  the  things  we  wear,  as  we 
shall  find  when  the  journey's  through,  and  the 
roll  call's  read  up  there.  We're  illustrating  the 
latest  styles,  with  raiment  that  beats  the  band; 
but  the  beautiful  things  are  the  kindly  smiles  that 
go  with  the  helping  hand.  We  burden  our 
selves  with  gleaming  gems,  that  neighbors  may 
stop  and  stare;  but  the  beautiful  things  are  the 
diadems  of  stars  that  the  righteous  wear.  There 
are  beautiful  things  in  the  poor  man's  cot,  though 
empty  the  hearth  and  cold,  if  love  and  service 
are  in  each  thought  that  husband  and  wife  may 
hold.  There  are  beautiful  things  in  the  lowest 
slum  where  wandering  outcasts  grope,  when 
down  to  its  depths  they  see  you  come  with  mes 
sage  of  help  and  hope.  The  beautiful  things 
that  we  mortals  buy  and  flash  in  the  crowded 
street,  will  all  be  junk  when  we  come  to  die,  and 
march  to  the  judgment  seat.  When  everything's 


TRAVELERS 


PVOWN  this  little  world  we  travel,  headed 
^"^  for  the  land  of  Dawn,  sawing  wood 
and  scratching  gravel,  here  today,  tomorrow 
gone!  Down  our  path  of  doubts  and  dangers, 
we  are  toddling,  mile  on  mile,  transient  and 
inquiring  strangers,  dumped  into  this  world  a 
while.  Let  us  make  the  journey  pleasant  for  the 
little  time  we  stay ;  all  we  have  is  just  the  Present 
—  all  we  need  is  just  Today.  Let's  encourage 
one  another  as  we  push  along  the  road,  saying 
to  a  jaded  brother:  "  Here,  I'll  help  you  with 
your  load!  "  Banish  scorn  and  vain  reviling, 
banish  useless  tears  and  woe;  let  us  do  the  jour 
ney  smiling,  all  our  hearts  with  love  aglow.  Let 
us  never  search  for  sorrow,  since  the  journey  is 
so  brief;  here  today  and  gone  tomorrow,  what 
have  we  to  do  with  grief?  Down  this  little 
world  we  wander,  strangers  from  some  unknown 
spheres,  headed  for  the  country  yonder  where 
they  have  no  sighs  or  tears ;  let  us  therefore  cease 
complaining,  let  us  be  no  longer  glum;  let  us  all 
go  into  training  for  the  joyful  life  to  come! 


THE  SHUT-IN 

1KNOW  a  crippled  woman  who  lives  through 
years  of  pain  with  patience  superhuman  —  for 
ne'er  does  she  complain.  An  endless  torture  rages 
throughout  her  stricken  frame;  an  hour  would 
seem  like  ages  if  I  endured  the  same.  Some 
times  I  call  upon  her  to  ask  her  how  she  stacks; 
it  is  her  point  of  honor  to  utter  no  alacks;  she 
hands  out  no  alases,  but  says  she's  feeling  gay, 
and  every  hour  that  passes  brings  some  new  joy 
her  way.  "  I'm  all  serene,  old  chappie,"  she 
says,  "as  you  can  see;  my  heart  is  always 
happy,  the  Lord's  so  good  to  me!  "  Thus 
chortles  pain-racked  Auntie,  and  says  it  with  a 
smile ;  and  when  I  leave  her  shanty  I  kick  myself 
a  while.  For  I  am  strong  and  scrappy;  I'm 
sound  in  wind  and  limb;  and  yet  I'm  seldom 
happy;  I  wail  a  graveyard  hymn;  whene'er  I 
meet  reverses  my  howls  are  agonized ;  I  say,  with 
bitter  curses,  the  gods  are  subsidized.  When 
life  seems  like  December,  a  thing  of  gloom  and 
care,  I  wish  I  could  remember  old  Auntie  in  her 
chair,  forget  my  whinings  hateful,  and  that  wan 
shut-in  see,  who  says  that  she  is  grateful,  "  the 
Lord's  so  good  to  me! 


IN  OLD  AGE 


w 


HEN  I  have  reached  three  score  and  ten 
I  hope  I  will  not  be  like  sundry  sad  and 


that 


day  I 


I  hope  I'll 


ancient  men  that  every 
never  be  so  old,  so  broken  down  and  gray,  that 
I  will  lift  my  voice  and  scold  when  children 
round  me  play.  I  hope  I'll  never  be  so  sere,  so 
close  to  muffled  drums,  that  I  can't  waltz  around 
and  cheer  whene'er  the  circus  comes.  I  hope  I'll 
never  wither  up  or  yet  so  foundered  be,  that  I 
won't  gambol  with  a  pup  when  it  would  play 
with  me.  I  hope  I'll  not,  while  yet  alive,  be  so 
much  like  a  corse,  that  I  won't  seize  a  chance 
to  drive  a  good  high-stepping  horse.  Though  I 
must  hobble  on  a  crutch  to  help  my  feeble  shins, 
I'll  always  yell  to  beat  the  Dutch  whene'er  the 
home  team  wins.  Perhaps  I'll  live  a  thousand 
years — I  sometimes  fear  I  will,  for  something 
whispers  in  my  ears  I  am  too  tough  to  kill  —  I 
may  outlast  the  modern  thrones  and  all  the  kings 
thereon,  but  while  I  navigate  my  bones  I'll  try, 
so  help  me  John,  to  be  as  young  in  mind  and 
heart  as  any  springald  near,  and  when  for  Jordan 
I  depart,  go  like  a  gay  roan  steer. 


HOMELESS 


W 


HEN  the  wind  blows  shrill,  with  a 
deadly  chill,  and  we  sit  by  the  cheerful 
blaze,  do  we  ever  think  of  the  homeless  gink, 
a-going  his  weary  ways?  The  daylight's  gone 
and  we  sit  and  yawn,  and  comfort  is  all  around; 
do  we  care  a  whoop  for  the  dismal  troop  adrift 
on  the  frozen  ground?  You  eat  and  drink  and 
count  your  chink  as  you  sit  in  your  easy  chair; 
and  you've  grown  hog-fat,  and  beneath  your  hat 
there's  hardly  a  sign  of  care.  Do  you  never 
pause,  as  you  ply  your  jaws,  devouring  the  oyster 
stew,  to  heave  a  sigh  for  the  waifs  who  lie 
outdoors,  all  the  long  night  through?  It  was 
good  of  Fate  that  she  paid  the  freight,  and 
planted  you  here  at  ease,  while  the  other  lads, 
who  are  shy  of  scads,  must  sit  in  the  park  and 
freeze.  But  she  may  repent  ere  your  days  are 
spent,  and  juggle  things  all  around,  and  the  bo 
may  sleep  on  your  mattress  deep,  and  you  on 
the  frozen  ground! 


THE  HAPPY  HOME 

THESE  pancakes  are  sublime," 
brightly  cries  Josiah  Jakes;  "  mother,  in 
the  olden  time,  thought  that  she  could  fashion 
cakes;  she  was  always  getting  praise,  and  de 
served  it,  I  maintain ;  but  she,  in  her  palmy  days, 
couldn't  touch  you,  Sarah  Jane.  Oh,  the  king 
upon  his  throne  for  such  fodder  surely  aches; 
you  are  in  a  class  alone,  when  it  comes  to  griddle 
cakes."  Then  upon  his  shining  dome  he  adjusts 
his  lid  and  goes,  and  his  wife  remains  at  home, 
making  pies  and  things  like  those.  She  is  stew 
ing  luscious  prunes,  in  her  eye  a  happy  tear,  and 
her  heart  is  singing  tunes  such  as  angels  like  to 
hear.  O'er  and  o'er  she  still  repeats  all  the 
kindly  words  he  said,  as  she  fixes  further  treats, 
pumpkin  pie  and  gingerbread.  When  the  even 
ing's  growing  gray,  following  the  set  of  sun, 
"  This  has  been  a  perfect  day,"  murmurs  she, 
her  labors  done.  Perfect  nearly  all  the  days  of 
our  loved  ones  well  might  be,  if  with  words  of 
honest  praise  we  were  generous  and  free. 


48 


THE  UNHAPPY  HOME 

HPIRED  father  to  his  home  returns,  all  jaded 
*  by  the  stress  and  fray,  to  have  the  rest  for 
which  he  yearns  throughout  the  long  and  toilsome 
day.  His  supper's  ready  on  the  board,  as  good 
a  meal  as  e'er  was  sprung,  a  meal  no  worker 
could  afford  in  olden  times,  when  we  were  young. 
He  looks  around  with  frowning  brow,  and  sighs, 
"  Ah,  what  a  lot  of  junk!  This  butter  never 
knew  a  cow,  the  coffee  is  extremely  punk.  You 
know  I  like  potatoes  boiled,  and  so,  of  course, 
you  dish  them  fried;  this  poor  old  beefsteak  has 
been  broiled  until  it's  tough  as  walrus  hide.  It 
beats  me,  Susan,  where  you  find  such  doughnuts, 
which  resemble  rock ;  these  biscuits  you  no  doubt 
designed  to  act  as  weights  for  yonder  clock.  You 
couldn't  fracture  with  a  club  the  kind  of  sponge 
cake  that  you  dish;  alas,  for  dear  old  mother's 
grub  throughout  my  days  I  vainly  wish."  Then 
Susan,  burdened  with  her  cares,  worn  out,  dis 
couraged,  sad  and  weak,  sits  down  beneath  the 
cellar  stairs,  and  weeps  in  German,  French,  and 
Greek.  Alas,  the  poor,  unhappy  soul,  whose 
maiden  dreams  are  all  a  wreck!  She  ought  to 
take  a  ten-foot  pole  and  prod  her  husband  in  the 
neck. 


49 


COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT 


NEW  VERSION 

THE  labor  of  the  week  is  o'er,  the  stress  and 
toil  titanic,  and  to  his  humble  cottage  door 
returns  the  tired  mechanic.  He  hangs  his 
weather-beaten  tile  and  coat  upon  a  rafter;  the 
housewife  greets  him  with  a  smile,  the  bairns 
with  joyous  laughter.  The  supper  is  a  merry 
meal,  and  when  they've  had  their  vittles,  the 
mother  plies  her  spinning  wheel,  while  father 
smokes  and  whittles.  But  now  the  kids,  a  joyous 
crowd,  must  cease  to  romp  and  caper,  for  father 
starts  to  read  aloud  the  helpful  daily  paper: 

"  A  cancer  on  the  neck  or  knees  once  meant 
complete  disaster;  but  Dr.  Chowder  guarantees 
to  cure  it  with  a  plaster.  He  doesn't  use  an  ax 
or  spade,  or  blast  it  out  with  powder;  don't  let 
your  coming  be  delayed  —  rely  on  Dr.  Chow 
der!  " 

Outdoors  there  is  a  rising  gale,  a  fitful  rain  is 
falling;  they  hear  the  east  winds  sadly  wail  like 
lonely  phantoms  calling.  But  all  is  peace  and 
within, 


joy 


eyes 


gli 


father,  with  a  happy  grin,  reads  on,  and  bids 
them  listen: 


"If  you  have  pimples  on  your  nose  or  bunions 
on  your  shoulder,  if  you  have  ringbones  on  your 
toes  —  ere  you're  a  minute  older  call  up  the 
druggist  on  the  phone  and  have  him  send  a  bas 
ket  of  Faker's  pills,  for  they  alone  will  save  you 
from  a  casket." 

The  clock  ticks  on  the  cottage  wall,  and  marks 
the  minutes'  speeding;  the  firelight  dances  in  the 
hall,  on  dad,  where  he  sits  reading.  Oh,  quiet, 
homely  scene  of  bliss,  the  nation's  pride  and 
glory!  And  in  a  million  homes  like  this,  dad 
reads  the  precious  story: 

"  Oh,  countless  are  the  grievous  ills,  afflicting 
human  critters,  but  we  have  always  Bunkum's 
Pills,  and  Skookum's  Hogwash  Bitters.  Have 
you  the  symptoms  of  the  gout  along  your  muscles 
playing?  And  are  your  whiskers  falling  out, 
and  are  your  teeth  decaying?  Have  you  no 
appetite  for  greens,  and  do  you  balk  at  fritters? 
We'll  tell  you,  reader,  what  it  means  —  you 
need  some  Hogwash  Bitters! 

The  children  nod  their  drowsy  heads,  their 
around  I 


toys 


lying. 


little  beds,"  says  mother,  softly  sighing.     "  It's 


time  they  were  away 
is  advancing;  but  ere 


from  here  —  the  evening 
they  go,  O  husband  dear, 


read  one  more  tale  entrancing."  And  father 
seeks  that  inside  page  where  "  Household 
Hints  "  are  printed,  where,  for  the  good  of  youth 
and  age,  this  "  Household  Hint  "  is  hinted: 

"  If  you  have  maladies  so  rank  they  are  too 
fierce  to  mention,  just  call  on  good  old  Dr. 
Crank;  you'll  find  it  his  intention  to  cure  you  up 
where  others  fail,  though  t'others  number 
twenty;  but  don't  forget  to  bring  the  kale,  and 
see  that  you  have  plenty." 


AT  THE  END 

WE  DO  our  little  stunt  on  earth,  and  when 
it's  time  to  die,  "  The  ice  we  cut  has 
little  worth  —  we  wasted  time,"  we  sigh. 
When  one  has  snow  above  his  ears,  and  age  has 
chilled  his  veins,  he  looks  back  on  the  vanished 
years,  his  spirit  racked  with  pains.  However 
well  he  may  have  done,  it  all  seems  trifling  then; 
alas,  if  he  could  only  run  his  little  course  again! 
He  would  not  then  so  greatly  prize  the  sordid 
silver  plunk ;  for  when  a  man  grows  old  and  wise, 
he  knows  that  coin  is  junk.  One  kindly  action 
of  the  past,  if  such  you  can  recall,  will  soothe  you 
greatly  at  the  last  when  memory  is  All.  If  you 
have  helped  some  pilgrim  climb  from  darkness 
and  despair,  that  action,  in  your  twilight  time, 
will  ease  your  weight  of  care.  The  triumphs  of 
your  business  day,  by  stealth  or  sharpness  gained, 
will  seem,  when  you  are  tired  and  gray,  to  leave 
your  record  stained.  Ah,  comrade,  in  the  dusk 
of  life,  when  you  have  ceased  your  grind,  when 
all  your  strategy  and  strife  are  left  for  aye 
behind,  when  you  await  the  curtain's  fall,  the 
setting  of  the  sun,  how  you  will  struggle  to  recall 
the  good  that  you  have  done ! 


53 


WHAT'S  THE  USE? 

MAN  toils  at  his  appointed  task  till  hair  is 
gray  and  teeth  are  loose,  and  pauses  now 
and  then  to  ask,  in  tones  despondent,  "  What's 
the  use?  "  We  have  distempers  of  the  mind 
when  we  are  tired  and  sorely  tried;  we'd  like  to 
quit  the  beastly  grind,  and  let  the  tail  go  with 
the  hide.  The  money  goes  for  shoes  and  pie, 
for  hats  and  pork  and  dairy  juice;  to  get  ahead 
we  strive  and  try,  and  still  are  broke,  so  what's 
the  use?  Then,  gazing  round  us,  we  behold 
the  down-and-outers  in  the  street;  they  shiver  in 
the  biting  cold,  they  trudge  along  on  weary  feet. 
They  have  no  home,  they  have  no  bed,  no  shelter 
neath  the  wintry  sky;  they'll  have  no  peace  till 
they  are  dead,  and  planted  where  the  paupers 
lie.  No  comfort  theirs  till  in  the  cell  that  has  a 
clammy  earthen  lid ;  yet  some  of  them  deserve  as 
well  of  Fortune  as  we  ever  did.  And,  having 
seen  the  hungry  throng,  if  we're  good  sports  we 
cease  to  sigh;  we  go  to  work  with  cheery  song, 
and  make  the  fur  and  feathers  fly. 


THE  MAN  WANTED 

NEVER  was  there  such  a  clamor  for  the 
man  who  knows  his  trade !  Whether  with 
a  pen  or  hammer,  whether  with  a  brush  or  spade 
he's  equipped,  the  world  demands  him,  calls 
upon  him  for  his  skill,  and  on  pay  day  gladly 
hands  him  rolls  of  roubles  from  its  till.  Little 
boots  it  what  his  trade  is,  building  bridges,  shoe 
ing  mules  —  men  will  come  from  Cork  and 
Cadiz  to  engage  him  and  his  tools.  All  the 
world  is  busy  hunting  for  the  workman  who's 
supreme,  whether  he  is  best  at  punting  or  at 
flavoring  ice  cream. 

Up  and  down  the  land  are  treading  men  who 
find  this  world  a  frost,  toiling  on  for  board  and 
bedding,  in  an  age  of  hustling  lost.  "  We  have 
never  had  fair  chances,  Fortune  ever  used  us 
sore,"  they  complain,  as  age  advances,  and  the 
poorhouse  lies  before.  "  Handy  men  are  we," 
they  mutter,  "  masters  of  a  dozen  trades,  yet  we 
can't  earn  bread  and  butter,  much  less  jams  and 
marmalades.  When  we  ask  a  situation,  stern 
employers  cry  again :  '  Chase  yourselves !  This 
weary  nation  crowded  is  with  handy  men !  Learn 
one  thing  and  learn  it  fully,  learn  in  something 


saying  we  are  farmers,  sawyers,  tinkers,  tailors 
gone  to  seed.  So  we  sing  our  doleful  chorus  as 
adown  the  world  we  wind,  for  the  poorhouse  lies 
before  us,  and  the  free  lunch  lies  behind." 

While  this  tragedy's  unfolding  in  each  corner 
of  the  land,  men  of  skill  are  still  beholding 
chances  rise  on  every  hand ;  men  who  learned  one 
thing  and  learned  it  up  and  down  and  to  and  fro, 
got  reward  because  they  earned  it  —  men  who 
study,  men  who  Know.  If  you're  raising  sweet 
potatoes,  see  that  they're  the  best  on  earth;  if 
you're  rearing  alligators,  see  that  they're  of 
special  worth;  if  you're  shoeing  dromedaries, 
shoe  the  brutes  with  all  your  might;  if  you're  ped 
dling  trained  canaries,  let  your  birds  be  out  of 
sight.  Whatsoever  you  are  doing,  do  it  well  and 
with  a  will,  and  you'll  find  the  world  pursuing, 
offering  to  buy  your  skill. 


56 


A  MAD  WORLD 

WHILE  seated  in  my  warm  abode  I  see 
John  Doe  pass  up  the  road,  that  man  of 
many  woes;  he  wears  one  rubber  and  one  shoe, 
the  wintry  blast  is  blowing  through  his  whiskers 
and  his  clothes.  He  has  no  place  to  sleep  or  eat, 
his  only  refuge  is  the  street,  his  shelter  heaven's 
vault;  I  see  him  in  the  storm  abroad,  and  say, 
"  But  for  the  grace  of  God,  there  goes  your 
Uncle  Walt."  John  Doe  with  gifts  was  richly 
blest;  he  might  have  distanced  all  the  rest,  had 
Fortune  kindly  been ;  but  Fortune  put  the  kibosh 
on  the  efforts  of  the  luckless  John,  and  never 
wore  a  grin.  I  wonder  why  an  Edgar  Poe  found 
life  a  wilderness  of  woe,  and  starved  in  garrets 
bare,  while  bards  who  cannot  sing  for  prunes  eat 
costly  grub  from  golden  spoons,  and  purple  rai 
ment  wear.  I  wonder  why  a  Robert  Burns  must 
try  all  kinds  of  shifts  and  turns  to  gain  his  daily 
bread,  the  while  a  Southey  basked  at  ease  and 
stuffed  himself  with  jam  and  cheese,  a  wreath 
upon  his  head.  Such  things  have  never  been 
explained;  I  know  not  why  it  is  ordained  that  I 
find  life  a  snap;  and  gazing  from  my  door  I  see 
John  Doe,  in  speechless  misery,  a  homeless,  hun 
gry  chap. 


57 


PUNCTUALITY 

man  is  a  bird;  he  always  is 
word;  he  knows  that  the  skate 
who  is  ten  minutes  late  is  trifling  and  vain  and 
absurd.  He  says,  "  I'll  be  with  you  at  four  " ; 
though  torrents  may  ruthlessly  pour,  you  know 
when  the  clock  strikes  the  hour  he  will  knock 
with  his  punctual  fist  at  your  door.  And  you 
say,  "  He  is  surely  a  trump!  I  haven't  much 
use  for  the  chump  who  is  evermore  late,  making 
other  men  wait  —  the  place  for  that  gent  is  the 
dump."  The  punctual  man  is  a  peach;  he  sticks 
to  his  dates  like  a  leech ;  it's  a  pity,  alas,  that  he 
hasn't  a  class  of  boneheaded  sluggards  to  teach. 
He's  welcome  wherever  he  wends;  the  country 
is  full  of  his  friends ;  he  goes  by  the  watch  and  he 
ne'er  makes  a  botch  of  his  time,  so  he  never 
offends.  If  he  says  he'll  get  married  at  nine,  you 
can  bet  he'll  be  standing  in  line,  with  his  beauti 
ful  bride,  and  the  knot  will  be  tied  ere  the  clock 
is  done  making  the  sign.  If  he  says  he'll  have 
cashed  in  at  five,  at  that  hour  he  will  not  be 
alive;  you  can  order  his  shroud  and  assemble  a 
crowd,  clear  out  to  the  boneyard  to  drive.  The 


58 


punctual  man  is  a  jo!  The  biggest  success  that 
I  know !  He  is  grand  and  sublime,  he  is  always 
on  time,  not  late  by  ten  minutes  or  so. 


DOWN  AND  OUT 


MISFORTUNE  punched  you  in  the  neck, 
and  knocked  you  down  and  tramped  you 
under;  will  you  survey  the  gloomy  wreck,  and 
stand  around  and  weep,  I  wonder?  Your  hold 
upon  success  has  slipped,  and  still  you  ought  to 
bob  up  grinning;  for  when  a  man  admits  he's 
whipped,  he  throws  away  his  chance  of  winning. 
I  like  to  think  of  John  Paul  Jones,  whose  ship 
was  split  from  truck  to  fender;  the  British  asked, 
in  blawsted  tones,  if  he  was  ready  to  surrender. 
The  Yankee  mariner  replied,  "  Our  ship  is  sink 
ing  at  this  writing,  but  don't  begin  to  put  on  side 
—  for  we  have  just  begun  our  fighting!  "  There 
is  a  motto,  luckless  lad,  that  you  should  paste 
inside  your  bonnet;  when  this  old  world  seems 
stern  and  sad,  with  nothing  but  some  Jonahs  on 
it,  don't  murmur  in  a  futile  way,  about  misfor 
tune,  bleak  and  biting,  but  gird  your  well  known 
loins  and  say,  "  Great  Scott!  I've  just  begun 
my  fighting!  "  The  man  who  won't  admit  he's 
licked  is  bound  to  win  a  triumph  shining,  and  all 
the  lemons  will  be  picked  by  weak-kneed  fellows, 
fond  of  whining. 


60 


"  CHARGE  IT  " 

'  T  UST  chalk  it  down,"  the  poor  man 
J  when  he  had  bought  some  boneless 
and  many  costly  things,  his  wife 
bairns  to  feed  —  the  most  of  which  they  didn't 
need  as  much  as  you  need  wings.  He  buys  the 
richest  things  in  town,  and  always  says,  "  Just 
chalk  it  down,  I'll  pay  you  soon,  you  bet;  "  and 
payday  evening  finds  him  broke,  his  hard  earned 
plunks  gone  up  in  smoke,  and  still  he  is  in  debt. 
The  man  who  doesn't  buy  for  cash  lays  in  all 
kinds  of  costly  trash,  that  he  could  do  without; 
he  spends  his  coin  before  it's  earned,  and  roars 
about  it  when  it's  burned  —  is  that  your  way, 
old  scout?  When  comes  the  day  of  evil  luck 
the  war  bag  doesn't  hold  a  buck  to  keep  the  wolf 
away;  the  "  charge  it "  plan  will  work  no  more 
at  any  market,  shop,  or  store  —  no  goods  unless 
you  pay.  The  poor  man  for  his  money  sweats, 
and  he  should  pay  for  what  he  gets,  just  when 
he  gets  the  same;  then,  when  he  goes  his  prunes 
to  buy,  and  sees  how  fast  the  nickels  fly.  he'll 
dodge  the  spendthrift  game.  If  you  begin  to 
save  your  stamps,  some  day,  with  teardrops  in 


61 


your  lamps,  this  writer  you  will  thank ;  when  man 
in  grief  and  sickness  groans  there's  naught  like 
having  fifteen  bones  in  some  good  savings  bank. 


THE  CROAKER 


THERE  is  a  man  —  you  know  him  well ;  in 
every  village  doth  he  dwell  —  who  all  the 
time  and  every  day  can  dig  up  something  sad  to 
say.  The  good,  the  beautiful,  the  fine,  the 
things  that  others  think  divine,  remind  him  that 
all  flesh  is  grass,  that  all  things  must  decay  and 
pass.  He  shakes  his  head  and  wags  his  ears  and 
sheds  all  kinds  of  briny  tears  and  cries,  "  Alack 
and  wella-day!  All  flesh  is  grass,  and  grass  is 
hay!  " 

He  gazes  on  the  blooming  bride,  who,  in  her 
beauty  and  her  pride,  is  fairer  than  the  fairest 
flower  that  ever  charmed  a  summer  hour.  Wise 
people  watch  her  with  delight,  and  hope  her 
future  may  be  bright;  they  whisper  blessings  and 
declare  that  she  is  radiant  and  rare,  and  better 
feel  for  having  seen  so  charming  and  so  sweet  a 
queen. 

But  Croaker  notes  her  brave  array  and  sighs, 
"  Her  bloom  will  pass  away!  A  few  short 
years,  and  she'll  be  bent  and  wrinkled  up,  I'll 
bet  a  cent!  The  hair  that  looks  like  gold  just 


wi 


now 
shrivel 


11 


be 


in 


soon  be  graying 
world  of  sin, 


this 


on  her  brow.     She'll 
and  there'll  be  whisk- 


ers  on  her  chin;  and  she  will  seem  all  hide  and 
bone,  a  withered  and  obnoxious  crone!  I've  seen 
so  many  brides  before,  with  orange  wreaths  and 
veils  galore,  and  I  have  seen  their  glories  pass  — 
all  flesh  is  grass,  all  flesh  is  grass! 

The  people  hear  his  tale  of  woe  and  murmur, 
"  What  he  says  is  so!  "  For  that's  the  way  with 
evil  words ;  they  travel  faster  than  the  birds. 

I  go  to  see  the  football  game,  and  note  the 
athlete,  strong  of  frame,  his  giant  arms,  his 
mighty  chest,  and  glory  in  his  youthful  zest.  It 
fires  my  ancient  soul  to  see  exultant  youth,  so 
strong  and  free. 

But  someone  at  my  elbow  sighs  —  and  there 
sits  Croaker  —  dern  his  eyes ! 

"  These  youths,"  he  says,  "  so  brave  and 
strong,  will  all  be  crippled  up  ere  long.  If 
they're  not  slaughtered  in  this  game,  they'll  all 
be  bunged  up,  just  the  same.  A  few  short  years, 
and  they  will  groan,  with  rheumatism  in  each 
bone;  they'll  all  be  lame  in  feet  and  knees,  they'll 
have  the  hoof  and  mouth  disease,  the  mumps,  the 
glanders  and  the  gout.  Go  on,  ye  springalds, 
laugh  and  shout  and  play  the  game  as  best  ye 
may,  for  youth  and  strength  will  pass  away! 


64 


nose, 

ers  to  his  toes,  and,  with  an  ardent,  eager  hoof, 
I  kick  his  person  through  the  roof.  But  he  has 
spoiled  my  happy  day;  the  croaker  drives  all 
glee  away. 


65 


CHOOSING  A  BRIDE 


THE  man  who  goes  to  choose  a  bride  should 
cautious  be,  and  falcon-eyed,  or  he  will 
harvest  woes ;  it  is  a  most  important  chore  — 
more  so  than  going  to  the  store  to  buy  a  suit  of 
clothes.  If  you  have  dreams  of  pleasant  nights 
around  the  fire,  and  home  delights,  sidestep  the 
giddy  maid  whose  thoughts  are  all  of  hats  and 
gowns,  and  other  female  hand-me-downs,  of 
show  and  dress  parade.  And  always  shun  the 
festive  skirt  who'll  never  miss  a  chance  to  flirt 
with  men,  at  any  cost;  she  may  seem  sweet  and 
charming  now,  but,  as  your  own  and  only  frau, 
she's  sure  to  be  a  frost.  And  when  you  see  a 
woman  near,  who  hankers  for  a  high  career,  and 
combs  her  hair  back  straight,  who  says  she's 
wedded  to  her  art,  whose  brow  is  high,  whose 
tongue  is  tart  —  oh,  Clarence,  pull  your  freight ! 
Select  a  damsel  safe  and  sane,  who  has  no  folly 
in  her  brain,  who  wants  to  build  a  home;  if  you 
can  win  that  sort  of  bride,  peace  shall  with  you 
and  yours  abide,  and  crown  your  old  bald  dome. 


66 


AFTER  US 

THE  workman,  in  my  new  abode,  now 
spreads  the  luscious  plaster;  he  hums  a 
blithe  and  cheerful  ode,  and  labors  fast  and 
faster.  I  stand  and  watch  him  as  he  works,  I 
stand  and  watch  and  ponder;  I  mark  how  skill 
fully  he  jerks  the  plaster  here  and  yonder. 
"  This  plaster  will  be  here,"  he  cries,  "  unbroken 
and  unshredded,  when  you  sing  anthems  in  the 
skies  —  if  that's  where  you  are  headed."  How 
good  to  feel,  as  on  we  strive,  in  this  bright  world 
enchanted,  that  what  we  do  will  be  alive  when 
we  are  dead  and  planted!  For  this  the  poet 
racks  his  brain  (and  not  for  coin  or  rubies)  until 
he  finds  he's  gone  insane  and  has  to  join  the 
boobies.  For  this  the  painter  plies  his  brush  and 
spreads  his  yellow  ochre,  to  find,  when  comes 
life's  twilight  hush,  that  Fame's  an  artful  joker. 
For  this  the  singer  sprains  her  throat,  and  burns 
the  midnight  candle,  and  tries  to  reach  a  higher 
note  than  Ellen  Yaw  could  handle.  For  this 
the  actor  rants  and  barks,  the  poor  old  welkin 
stabbin',  and  takes  the  part  of  Lawyer  Marks 
in  Uncle  Tommy's  Cabin.  Alas,  my  labors 


will  not  last!  In  vain  my  rhythmic  rages!  I 
cannot  make  my  plaster  plast  so  it  will  stick  for 
ages! 


68 


SOME  OF  THE  POOR 


SO  MANY  have  no  roofs  or  doors,  no  sheets 
to  cuddle  under !  You  hire  some  men  to  do 
your  chores,  and  then  you  cease  to  wonder. 
Alas,  he  is  so  hard  to  find  —  he  takes  so  much 
pursuing  —  the  worker  who  will  keep  his  mind 
on  what  he  may  be  doing.  I  hire  a  man  to  saw 
some  sticks,  to  keep  the  fire  a-going,  and  he  dis 
cusses  politics,  in  language  smooth  and  flowing; 
the  saw  grows  rusty  while  he  stands,  the  welkin 
shrinks  and  totters,  as  he,  with  swinging  jaws 
and  hands,  denounces  Wall  Street  plotters. 
When  I  go  home,  as  dusk  grows  dense,  I  hear 
his  windy  rages,  and  kick  him  sadly  through  the 
fence,  when  I  have  paid  his  wages.  I  hire  a  man 
to  paint  the  churn  and  hoe  the  morning  glories, 
and  when  at  evening  I  return  he's  busy  telling 
stories.  "  That  toiler  is  no  good,  I  fear,"  re 
marks  the  hausfrau.  Sally;  I  take  him  gently 
by  the  ear  and  lead  him  to  the  alley.  I  hire  a 
man  the  stove  to  black,  and  fix  the  kitchen  table, 
and  when  at  evening  I  come  back,  he's  sleeping 
in  the  stable.  And  thus  we  suffer  and  endure 
the  trifler's  vain  endeavor;  we  do  not  wonder 
that  the  poor  are  with  us  here  forever. 


THE  HARVEST  HAND 

TRIUMPHANTLY  the  toiler  roared,  "  I 
get  three  bones  a  day  and  board !  That's 
going  some,  eh,  what?  "  And  on  he  labored, 
brave  and  strong;  the  work  was  hard,  the  hours 
were  long,  the  day  was  passing  hot.  I  sat  at 
ease  beneath  a  tree  —  that  sort  of  thing  appeals 
to  me  —  and  watched  him  as  he  toiled ;  the 
sweat  rolled  down  him  in  a  stream,  and  I  could 
see  his  garments  steam,  his  face  and  hands  were 
broiled.  He  chuckled  as  he  toiled  away, 
"  They're  paying  me  three  bones  a  day,  with 
board  and  washing,  too!  "  That  was  his  dream 
of  easy  mon  —  to  stew  and  simmer  in  the  sun, 
for  that,  the  long  day  through!  And  I,  who 
earn  three  iron  men  with  sundry  scratches  of  a 
pen,  felt  sorry  for  the  jay;  but,  as  I  watched  his 
stalwart  form,  the  pity  that  was  growing  warm 
within  me,  blew  away.  For  he  was  getting  more 
than  wealth  —  keen  appetite  and  rugged  health, 
and  blessings  such  as  those ;  and  when  the  day  of 
toil  was  through,  no  doubt  the  stalwart  worker 
knew  a  weary  child's  repose! 


70 


WHAT  I'D  DO 

IF  I  were  Binks  the  baker,  I'd  tidy  up  my 
store;  I  would  not  have  an  acre  of  dust 
upon  the  floor.  I'd  be  a  skilled  adjuster  and 
make  things  please  the  eyes;  I'd  take  a  feather 
duster  and  clean  the  pumpkin  pies.  I'd  keep  the 
doorknob  shining,  and  polish  up  the  glass,  and 
never  sit  repining,  and  never  say,  "  Alas! 

If  I  were  Binks  the  baker,  I'd  have  a  cheerful 
heart,  as  always  should  the  maker  of  bread  and 
pie  and  tart;  for  looking  sad  and  grewsome  will 
never  bring  the  trade  of  folks  who  want  to  chew 
some  doughnuts  and  marmalade.  When  I  go 
blowing  money  I  always  seek  the  store  whose 
boss  is  gay  and  sunny,  with  gladness  bubbling 
o'er ;  and  when  I  chance  to  enter  a  bakery  whose 
chief  is  roaring  like  a  stentor  about  his  woe  and 
grief,  his  bellowings  confound  me,  I  do  not 
spend  a  yen;  I  merely  glance  around  me,  and 
hustle  out  again. 

If  I  were  Binks  the  baker,  and  had  a  grouch 
on  hand,  I'd  surely  try  to  shake  her,  and  smile 
to  beat  the  band.  For  no  one  wants  to  harken 
to  tales  of  woe  and  strife,  to  hear  of  clouds  that 
darken  a  merchant's  weary  life.  For  customers, 


71 


have  troubles,  like  you,  through  all  their  years; 
and  when  they  spend  their  rubles  they  are  not 
buying  tears.  They'll  like  you  all  the  better,  you 
and  your  cakes  and  jam,  if  you  are  not  a  fretter, 
a  kicker  and  a  clam. 

If  I  were  Bakes,  the  binker  —  my  wires  are 
crossed,  I  swow  —  I'd  sell  the  pie  and  sinker 
with  calm,  unclouded  brow.  No  grumblings 
wild  and  woolly  would  from  my  larynx  slide; 
I'd  swear  that  things  were  bully,  and  seven 
meters  wide.  Then  folks  would  all  admire  me, 
and  seek  me  in  my  den,  and  load  me  till  they'd 
tire  me,  with  kopecks,  taels,  and  yen. 


THE  FORTUNE  TELLER 

A  GYPSY  maiden,  strangely  wise,  with 
dusky  hair  and  midnight  eyes,  my  future 
life  unveiled;  she  said  she'd  read  the  lines  of 
fate  for  many  another  trusting  skate,  and  never 
yet  had  failed.  She  was  a  maid  of  savage 
charms;  great  brazen  rings  were  on  her  arms, 
and  she  had  strings  of  beads;  with  trinkets  she 
was  loaded  down;  the  noisy  colors  of  her  gown 
recalled  no  widow's  weeds.  She  told  me  I 
would  live  to  be  as  rich  as  Andy  or  John  D.,  my 
dreams  would  all  come  true;  I'd  have  a  palace 
on  a  hill,  and  vassals  near  to  do  my  will,  a  yacht 
to  sail  the  blue.  And  as  she  told  what  blessings 
fine,  what  great  rewards  and  gifts  were  mine,  in 
low  and  dulcet  tones,  her  nimble  fingers,  ne'er 
at  rest,  got  closer  to  my  checkered  vest,  and 
lifted  seven  bones.  She  touched  me  for  my 
meager  roll,  that  poor  misguided,  heathen  soul, 
but  still  her  victim  smiles;  she  gave  me  dreams 
for  half  a  day  and  took  me  with  her  to  Cathay 
and  the  enchanted  isles.  Her  glamour  caused 
me  to  forget  a  little  while,  the  strife  and  sweat, 
the  city's  bricks  and  stones;  she  took  my  toil- 
worn  soul  abroad,  and  she  is  welcome  to  my  wad 
—  I  still  have  seven  bones. 


73 


GOLD  BRICKS 

V7  OUNG  JACK  goes  forth  to  call  on  Rose, 
•*•  attired  in  gorgeous  raiment  (and  for  that 
gaudy  suit  of  clothes  the  tailor  seeks  his  pay 
ment)  ;  his  teeth  are  scoured,  his  shoes  are  shined, 
the  barber  man's  been  active  —  in  sooth,  it's 
hard  to  call  to  mind  a  fellow  more  attractive. 

And  Rose  is  waiting  at  the  gate,  as  blithely 
Jack  advances;  she  has  her  angel  smile  on 
straight,  and  charming  are  her  glances.  She's 
spent  at  least  a  half  a  day  (to  temper's  sore  abra 
sion)  to  get  herself  in  brave  array,  in  shape  for 
this  occasion.  All  afternoon,  with  patient  care, 
she  tried  on  heaps  of  dresses;  her  gentle  mother 
heard  her  swear  while  combing  out  her  tresses. 
But  now,  as  lovely  as  the  day,  with  trouble  un 
acquainted,  she  looks  as  though  she  grew  that 
way  and  never  puffed  or  painted. 

And  so  they  both,  on  dress  parade,  sit  down 
within  the  arbor,  she  well  upholstered  by  her 
maid,  he  scented  by  his  barber.  They  talk  of 
painters,  Spanish,  Dutch ;  they  talk  of  Keats  and 
Dante  —  for  whom  they  do  not  care  as  much 
as  does  your  maiden  auntie.  Now  Jack  is  down 
upon  his  knees!  By  jings!  he  is  proposing! 


His  vows,  a-floating  on  the  breeze,  his  ardor  are 
disclosing !  And  Rose !  Her  bliss  is  now  begun 
—  she's  made  her  little  capture.  Oh,  chee !  two 
hearts  that  beat  as  one,  and  all  that  sort  of 
rapture ! 

And  there  is  none  to  say  to  Rose,  "  Don't  rush 
into  a  marriage!  You're  getting  but  a  suit  of 
clothes,  some  gall,  a  princely  carriage!  This 
man  upon  whose  breast  you  lean  too  often  has  a 
jag  on;  he  couldn't  buy  the  raw  benzine  to  run 
your  chug-chug  wagon !  Of  tawdry  thoughts  he 
is  the  fount;  his  heart  is  cold  and  stony.  He's 
ornery  and  no  account;  his  stately  front  is 
phony !  He  owes  for  all  the  duds  he  wears,  for 
all  the  grub  he's  swallowed,  and  at  his  heels,  on 
streets  and  stairs,  the  bailiffs  long  have  fol 
lowed! 

And  there  is  none  to  say  to  Jack,  "  Don't  wed 
that  dazzling  maiden!  You  think  that  down  a 
starry  track  she  slid  to  you  from  Aidenn ;  but  she 
is  selfishness  boiled  down  —  as  mother  oft  dis 
covers  —  and  in  the  house  she  wears  a  frown ; 
she  keeps  her  smiles  for  lovers.  She  never  did  a 
useful  thing  or  had  a  thought  uplifting,  and  ere 
she  gets  you  on  her  string,  look  out  where  you 
are  drifting! 


76 


There's  none  who  dares  to  tell  the  truth  or 
point  the  proper  courses,  so  foolish  maid  weds 
foolish  youth,  and  then  we  have  divorces ! 


AMBITIONS 

A  H,  ONCE,  in  sooth,  in  days  of  youth,  I 
**•  longed  to  be  a  pirate;  the  corsair's  fame 
for  deeds  of  shame  —  all  boys  did  once  desire 
it.  At  night  when  gleamed  the  stars  I  dreamed 
of  sacking  Spanish  vessels,  of  clanging  swords 
and  dripping  boards,  and  bloody  scraps  and 
wrestles.  Then  "  One-Eyed  Lief  "  the  pirate 
chief  my  hero  was  and  model ;  in  dreams  I'd  hold 
his  stolen  gold  till  I  could  scarcely  waddle.  But 
father  took  his  shepherd's  crook  and  lammed  me 
like  tarnation,  till  I  forgot  that  sort  of  rot  for 
milder  aspiration. 

And  still  I  dreamed ;  and  now  I  seemed  to  be 
a  baseball  pitcher,  adored  by  all,  both  great  and 
small,  in  wealth  grown  rich  and  richer.  My 
dreaming  eyes  saw  crowds  arise  and  bless  me 
from  the  bleachers,  when  I  struck  out  some  pinch 
hit  lout  and  beat  those  Mudville  creatures.  I 
seemed  to  stand,  sublime  and  grand,  the  idol  of 
all  f andom ;  men  thought  me  swell,  and  treasured 
well  the  words  I  spoke  at  random.  Ah,  boy 
hood  schemes,  and  empty  dreams  of  glory,  fame 
and  riches!  My  mother  came  and  tanned  my 
frame  with  sundry  birchen  switches,  and  brought 


77 


me  back  to  duty's  track,  and  made  me  hoe  the 
onions,  dig  garden  sass  and  mow  the  grass  until 
my  hands  had  bunions. 

In  later  days  I  used  to  raise  my  eyes  to  sum 
mits  splendid.  "  I'll  hold,"  I'd  swear,  "  the 
White  House  chair,  before  my  life  is  ended." 
The  years  rolled  on  and  dreams  are  gone,  with 
all  their  gorgeous  sallies,  and  in  my  town  I'm 
holding  down  a  job  inspecting  alleys. 

Thus  goes  the  world;  a  man  is  hurled  from 
heights  to  depths  abysmal;  the  dream  of  hope  is 
golden  dope,  but  waking  up  is  dismal.  So  many 
dreams,  so  many  schemes,  upon  the  hard-rock 
shiver!  We  think  we'll  eat  some  sirloin  meat, 
and  have  to  dine  on  liver.  We  think  we'll  dine 
on  duck  and  wine,  with  garlands  hanging  o'er 
us,  but  when  some  dub  calls  us  to  grub,  stewed 
prunes  are  set  before  us.  And  yet,  my  friends, 
though  dreaming  ends  in  dark-blue  taste  to 
morrow,  build  airy  schemes!  Without  your 
dreams,  this  life  would  be  all  sorrow. 


78 


CHRISTMAS  MUSINGS 


ONE  winter  night  —  how  long  ago  it 
seems !  —  I  lay  me  down  to  bask  in  pleas 
ant  dreams.  My  sock  was  hung,  hard  by  the 
quilting  frame,  where  Santa  Claus  must  see  it 
when  he  came.  I'd  been  assured  by  elders,  good 
and  wise,  that  he  would  come  when  I  had  closed 
my  eyes ;  along  the  roofs  he'd  drive  his  team  and 
sleigh,  and  down  the  chimney  make  his  sooty 
way.  And  much  I  wondered,  as  I  drowsy 
grew,  how  he  would  pass  the  elbows  in  the  flue. 
The  morning  came,  the  Christmas  bells  rang 
loud,  I  heard  the  singing  of  a  joyous  crowd, 
and  in  my  sock  that  blessed  day  I  found  a  gift 
that  made  my  head  whirl  round  and  round.  A 
pair  of  skates,  whose  runners  shone  like  glass, 
whose  upper  parts  were  rich  with  steel  and  brass ! 
A  pair  of  skates  that  would  the  gods  suffice,  if 
ever  gods  go  scooting  o'er  the  ice!  All  through 
the  day  I  held  them  in  my  arms  and  nursed  them 
close,  nor  wearied  of  their  charms.  I  did  not 
envy  then  the  king  his  crown,  the  knight  his 
charger,  or  the  mayor  his  town.  I  scaled  the 
heights  of  rapture  and  delight  —  I  had  new 
skates,  oh,  rare  and  wondrous  sight! 


79 


'Twas  long  ago,  and  they  who  loved  me  then 
are  in  their  graves,  the  wise  old  dames  and  men. 
Since  that  far  day  when  rang  the  morning  chimes, 
the  Christmas  bells  have  rung  full  forty  times; 
the  winter  snow  is  on  my  heart  and  hair,  and 
old  beliefs  have  vanished  in  thin  air.  No  more 
I  wait  to  hear  old  Santa's  team,  as  drowsily 
I  drift  into  a  dream.  Age  has  no  myths,  no 
legends,  no  beliefs,  but  only  facts,  and  facts  are 
mostly  griefs. 

I've  prospered  well,  I've  earned  a  goodly 
store,  since  that  bright  morning  in  the  time  of 
yore.  My  home  is  filled  with  rare  and  costly 
things,  and  every  day  some  modern  comfort 
brings;  I've  motor  cars  and  also  speedy  steeds, 
and  goods  to  meet  all  human  wants  or  needs; 
and  at  the  bank,  when  I  step  in  the  door,  the 
money  changers  bow  down  to  the  floor. 

The  bells  of  Christmas  clamor  in  the  gale, 
but  I  am  old,  and  life  is  flat  and  stale.  I'd 
give  my  hoard  for  just  one  thrill  of  joy,  such 
as  I  knew  when,  as  a  little  boy,  I  proudly  went 
and  showed  my  youthful  mates  my  Christmas 
gift  —  a  pair  of  shining  skates !  For  those  cheap 
skates  I'd  give  my  motor  cars,  my  works  of  art, 
my  Cuba-made  cigars,  my  stocks  and  bonds,  my 


hunters 
my  terraced 
again  might 
long  ago! 


my  hounds,  my  stately  mansion  and 
grounds,  if,  having  them,  I  once 
know  the  joy  I  knew  so  long,  so 


THE  WAY  OF  A  MAN 

BEFORE  MARRIAGE 

HE  carried  flowers  and  diamond  rings  to 
please  that  dazzling  belle,  and  caramels 
and  other  things  that  damsels  love  so  well.  He'd 
sit  for  hours  upon  a  chair  and  hold  her  on  his 
knees;  he  blew  his  money  here  and  there,  as 
though  it  grew  on  trees.  "  If  I  had  half  what 
you  are  worth,"  he  used  to  say,  "  my  sweet, 
I'd  put  a  shawlstrap  round  the  earth  and  lay  it 
at  your  feet." 

He  had  no  other  thought,  it  seemed,  than  just 
to  cheer  her  heart;  and  everything  of  which  she 
dreamed,  he  purchased  in  the  mart. 

"  When  we  are  spliced,"  he  used  to  say, 
"  you'll  have  all  you  desire  —  a  gold  mine  or 
a  load  of  hay,  a  dachshund  or  a  lyre.  My  one 
great  aim  will  be  to  make  your  life  a  thing  of 
joy,  so  haste  and  to  the  altar  take  your  little 
Clarence  boy." 

And  so  she  thought  she  drew  a  peach  when 
they  were  wed  in  June.  Alas!  how  oft  for 
plums  we  reach,  and  only  get  a  prune ! 


AFTER  MARRIAGE 

"  And  so  you  want  another  hat?  "  he  thun 
dered  to  his  frau.  "  Just  tell  me  what  is  wrong 
with  that  —  the  one  you're  wearing  now!  No 
wonder  that  I  have  the  blues,  the  way  the  money 
goes;  last  week  you  blew  yourself  for  shoes, 
next  week  you'll  want  new  clothes! 

"  I  wish  you  were  like  other  wives  and  would 
like  them  behave;  it  is  the  object  of  their  lives 
to  help  their  husbands  save.  All  day  I'm  in  the 
business  fight  and  strain  my  heart  and  soul,  and 
when  I  journey  home  at  night,  you  touch  me 
for  my  roll.  You  want  a  twenty-dollar  hat,  to 
hold  your  topknot  down,  or  else  a  new  Angora 
cat,  a  lapdog,  or  a  gown.  You  lie  awake  at 
night  and  think  of  things  you'd  like  to  buy, 
and  when  I  draw  a  little  chink,  you  surely  make 
it  fly. 

"  With  such  a  wife  as  you,  I  say,  a  husband 
has  no  chance;  you  pull  his  starboard  limb  by 
day,  by  night  you  rob  his  pants. 

"  My  sainted  mother,  when  she  dwelt  in  this 
sad  vale  of  tears,  had  one  old  lid  of  cloth  or 
felt,  she  wore  for  thirty  years.  She  helped  my 
father  all  the  time,  she  pickled  every  bone,  and 


if  she  had  to  blow  a  dime,  it  made  her 
and 


weep 


moan. 


The  hat  you  wear  is  good  as  new;  'twill 


do  another  year.     So  don't  stand  round,  the 
to  chew  —  I'm  busy  now,  my  dear.' 


rag 


THE  TWO  SALESMEN 


TWO  salesmen  went  to  work  for  Jones,  who 
deals  in  basswood  trunks;  each  drew  per 
week  eleven  bones,  eleven  big  round  plunks. 
"  It  isn't  much,"  said  Jones,  "  but  then,  do 
well,  and  you'll  get  more;  I'd  like  to  have  some 
high-priced  men  around  this  blamed  old  store. 
You'll  find  I'm  always  glad  to  pay  as  much  as 
you  are  worth,  so  let  your  curves  from  day  to 
day  astonish  all  the  earth." 

Then  Salesman  Number  One  got  down  and 
buckled  to  his  work;  and  people  soon,  through 
out  the  town,  were  talking  of  that  clerk.  He 
was  so  full  of  snap  and  vim,  so  cheerful  and 
serene,  that  people  liked  to  deal  with  him,  and 
hand  him  good  long  green.  In  busy  times  he'd 
stay  at  night  to  straighten  things  around,  and 
never  show  a  sign  of  spite,  or  raise  a  doleful 
sound.  He  never  feared  that  he  would  work  a 
half  an  hour  too  long,  but  he  those  basswood 
trunks  would  jerk  with  cheerful  smile  and  song. 

And  ever  and  anon  Brer  Jones  would  say: 
"  You're  good  as  wheat!  I  raise  your  stipend 
seven  bones,  and  soon  I  will  repeat!  "  And 
now  that  Salesman  Number  One  is  manager  they 


85 


say;  each  week  he  draws  a  bunch  of  mon  big 
as  a  load  of  hay. 

But  Salesman  Number  Two  was  sore  be 
cause  his  pay  was  small;  he  sighed,  "  The  owner 
of  this  store  has  seven  kinds  of  gall.  He  ought 
to  pay  me  eighteen  bucks,  and  more  as  I  advance. 
He  ought  to  treat  me  white  —  but  shucks !  I 
see  my  name  is  Pance." 

Determined  to  do  just  enough  to  earn  his 
meager  pay,  he  watched  the  clock,  and  cut  up 
rough  if  late  he  had  to  stay.  He  saw  that 
other  salesman  climb,  the  man  of  smiles  and 
songs;  but  still  he  fooled  away  his  time,  and 
brooded  o'er  his  wrongs. 

He's  still  employed  at  Jones*  store,  but  not, 
alas!  as  clerk;  he  cleans  the  windows,  sweeps 
the  floor,  and  does  the  greasy  work.  He  sees 
young  fellows  make  their  start  and  prosper  and 
advance,  and  sadly  sighs,  with  breaking  heart, 
"  I  never  had  a  chance! 

And  thousands  raise  that  same  old  wail 
throughout  this  busy  land;  you  hear  that  gurgle, 
false  and  stale,  wherever  failures  stand.  The 
men  who  never  had  a  chance  are  scarce  as 
chickens'  teeth,  and  chaps  who  simply  won't 
advance  must  wear  the  goose-egg  wreath. 


86 


THE  PRODIGAL  SON 

AT  last  I'm  wise,  I  will  arise,  and  seek 
my  father's  shack;  "  thus  muttered  low 
the  ancient  bo,  and  then  he  hit  the  track.  From 
dwellings  rude  he'd  oft  been  shooed,  been  chased 
by  farmers'  dogs;  this  poor  old  scout,  all  down 
and  out,  had  herded  with  the  hogs.  His  heart 
was  wrong;  it  took  him  long  to  recognize  the 
truth,  that  there's  a  glad  and  smiling  dad  for 
each  repentant  youth.  "  I  will  arise,  doggone 
my  eyes,"  the  prodigal  observed,  "  and  try  to 
strike  the  old  straight  pike  from  which  I  idly 
swerved."  The  father  saw,  while  baling  straw, 
the  truant,  sore  and  lamed;  he  whooped  with 
joy;  "  my  swaybacked  boy,  you're  welcome! 
he  exclaimed.  Midst  glee  and  mirth  two  dol 
lars*  worth  of  fireworks  then  were  burned; 
"  we'll  kill  a  cow,"  cried  father,  "  now  that 
Reuben  has  returned!  "  His  sisters  sang,  the 
farmhouse  rang  with  glee  till  rafters  split,  his 
mother  sighed  with  hope  and  pride,  his  granny 
had  a  fit.  And  it's  today  the  same  old  way,  the 
lamp  doth  nightly  burn,  to  guide  you  home,  O, 
boys  who  roam,  if  you  will  but  return. 


87 


HOSPITALITY 

F  HATE  to  eat  at  a  friend's  abode  —  he 
*  makes  me  carry  too  big  a  load.  He  keeps 
close  tab,  and  he  has  a  fit,  if  I  show  a  sign 
that  I'd  like  to  quit.  "  You  do  not  eat  as  a 
host  could  wish  —  pray,  try  some  more  of  the 
deviled  fish.  Do  put  some  vinegar  on  your 
greens,  and  take  some  more  of  the  boneless  beans, 
and  have  a  slice  of  the  rich,  red  beet,  and  here's 
a  chunk  of  the  potted  meat.  We'll  think  our 
cooking  has  failed  to  please,  if  you  don't  eat 
more  of  the  Lima  peas,  of  the  stringless  squash 
and  the  graham  rolls,  and  the  doughnuts  crisp, 
with  their  large  round  holes.  You  are  no  good 
with  the  forks  and  spoons  —  do  try  a  dish  of 
our  home  grown  prunes!  "  I  eat  and  eat,  at 
my  friend's  behest,  till  the  buttons  fly  from  my 
creaking  vest.  I  stagger  home  when  the  meal  is 
o'er,  and  nightmares  come  when  I  sleep  and 
snore;  and  long  thereafter  my  stomach  wails, 
as  though  I'd  swallowed  a  keg  of  nails.  Be 
kind  to  the  cherished  guest,  and  let 
when  he  wants  to  rest!  Don't  make 

through  the  bill  of  fare,  when  you  see 

of  a  dumb  despair! 


wise 


88 


HON.  CROESUS  EXPLAINS 


o 


H,  yes,  I  own  a  mill  or  two  where  little 
children  toil  ;  but  why  this  foolish  how-de- 
do,  this  uproar  and  turmoil?  You  say  these 
children  are  but  slaves,  who,  through  the  age 
long  day,  must  work  in  dark  and  noisome  caves 
to  earn  a  pauper's  pay?  You  hold  me  up  to 
public  scom  as  one  who's  steeped  in  sin;  and 
yet  I  feel  that  I  adorn  the  world  I'm  living  in. 

But  yesterday  I  wrote  two  checks  for  twenty- 
seven  plunks  to  build  a  Home  for  Human 
Wrecks  and  buy  them  horsehair  trunks. 

In  building  up  monopolies  I've  crushed  a  thou 
sand  men?  I'm  tired  of  that  old  chestnut; 
please  don't  spring  that  gag  again.  I  cannot 
answer  for  the  fate  of  those  by  Trade  unmade; 
for  men  who  cannot  hit  the  gait  must  drop  from 
the  parade.  If  scores  of  people  got  the  worst 
of  deals  I  had  in  line,  if  by  the  losers  I  am 
cursed,  that  is  no  fault  of  mine.  And  you,  who 
come  with  platitude,  are  but  an  also  ran;  I  use 
my  money  doing  good,  as  much  as  any  man. 

7'm  doing  good  while  Virtue  rants  and  of  my 
conduct  moans;  for  a  Retreat  for  Maiden 
Aunts  I  just  gave  twenty  bones. 


I  hold  too  cheap  employees'  lives,  you  cry 
in  tones  intense;  I'm  making  widows  of  their 
wives,  to  keep  down  my  expense.  I  will  not  buy 
a  fire  escape,  or  lifeguards  now  in  style,  and  so 
the  orphan's  wearing  crape  upon  his  Sunday  tile. 
I  know  just  what  my  trade  will  stand  before 
it  bankrupt  falls,  and  so  I  can't  equip  each  hand 
with  costly  folderols.  There  is  no  sentiment  in 
trade,  let  that  be  understood;  but  when  my 
work  aside  is  laid,  my  joy's  in  doing  good. 

Today  I  coughed  up  seven  bucks  to  Ladies 
of  the  Grail,  who  wish  to  furnish  roasted  ducks 
to  suffragists  in  jail. 

You  say  I  violate  all  laws  and  laugh  the 
courts  to  scorn,  and  war  on  every  worthy  cause 
as  soon  as  it  is  born?  You  can't  admit  my 
moral  health  —  you  wouldn't  if  you  could ;  I 
spend  my  days  in  gaining  wealth,  my  nights  in 
doing  good. 

And  while  the  hostile  critic  roars,  I'm  giving 
every  day;  I'm  sending  nice  pink  pinafores  to 
heathen  in  Cathay. 


90 


MANANA 

THE  weeds  in  the  garden  are  growing, 
while  I'm  sitting  here  in  the  shade;  I 
know  that  I  ought  to  be  hoeing  and  doing  some 
things  with  a  spade.  I  know  that  I  shouldn't 
be  shirking  in  pleasant,  arboreal  nooks;  I  know 
that  I  ought  to  be  working  like  good  little  boys 
in  the  books.  They  tell  me  that  idling  brings 
sorrow,  and  doubtless  they  tell  me  the  truth; 
I'll  tackle  that  garden  tomorrow  —  today  I've 
a  yarn  by  Old  Sleuth! 

The  fence,  so  my  mother  reminds  me,  needs 
fixing  the  worst  kind  of  way!  So  it  does;  but, 
alas!  how  it  grinds  me  to  wrestle  with  fence 
boards  today!  I  ought  to  do  stunts  with  a 
hammer,  and  cut  a  wide  swath  with  a  saw,  and 
raise  an  industrial  clamor  out  there  at  the  fence 
by  the  draw.  The  punishing  fires  of  Gomorrah 
on  idlers,  ma  says,  will  rain  down;  I'll  fix  up 
that  blamed  fence  tomorrow  —  today  there's  a 
circus  in  town  I 

I  ought  to  be  whacking  up  kindling,  says  ma, 
as  she  fools  with  the  churn;  the  pile  in  the 
woodshed  is  dwindling,  and  soon  there'll  be 
nothing  to  burn.  There's  Laura,  my  sister,  as 


91 


busy  as  any  old  bee  that  you  know,  while  all 
my  employments  are  dizzy,  productive  of  nothing 
but  woe.  I'll  show  I'm  as  eager  as  Laura  to 
make  in  the  sunshine  my  hay!  I'll  split  up 
some  kindling  tomorrow  —  I  planned  to  go  fish 
ing  today! 

I've  made  up  my  mind  to  quit  fooling  and 
do  all  the  chores  round  the  shack.  Just  wait  till 
you  see  me  a-tooling  the  cow  to  the  pasture  and 
back!  I'll  show  that  I'm  willing  and  able! 
I'll  weed  out  the  cucumber  vines,  I'll  gather 
the  eggs  'neath  the  stable,  and  curry  the  horse 
till  he  shines!  A  leaf  from  ma's  book  I  shall 
borrow  and  labor  away  till  I  fall!  I'll  surely 
get  busy  tomorrow  —  today  there's  a  game  of 
baseball ! 


92 


SHOVELING  COAL 

SHOVELING  coal,  shoveling  coal,  into  the 
furnace's  crater-like  hole!  Thus  goes  the 
coin  we  so  wearily  earn,  into  the  furnace  to  sizzle 
and  burn ;  thus  it's  converted  to  ashes  and  smoke, 
and  we  keep  shoveling,  weeping,  and  broke. 
Oh,  it's  a  labor  that  tortures  the  soul,  shoveling 
coal,  shoveling  coal !  "  The  house,"  says  the 
wife,  "  is  as  cold  as  a  barn,"  so  I  must  emi 
grate,  muttering  "  dam,"  down  to  the  furnace, 
the  which  I  must  feed;  it  is  a  glutton,  a  demon 
of  greed!  Into  its  cavern  I  throw  a  large  load 
—  there  goes  the  money  I  got  for  an  ode ! 
There  goes  the  check  that  I  got  for  a  pome, 
boosting  the  joys  of  an  evening  at  home !  There 
goes  the  price  of  full  many  a  scroll,  shoveling 
coal,  shoveling  coal!  Things  that  I  need  I'm 
not  able  to  buy,  I  have  shut  down  on  the  cake 
and  the  pie ;  most  of  my  jewels  are  lying  in  soak, 
gone  is  the  money  for  ashes  and  smoke;  all  I 
can  earn,  all  the  long  winter  through,  goes  in 
the  furnace  and 


up 


says 


frau,  "  It's  as  cold  as  a  floe,  up  in  the  Arctic 


where  polar  bears 
sorrow  and  dole, 


grow."     So  all  my  song  is  of 
shoveling  coal,  shoveling  coal! 


THE  DIFFERENCE 


WHEN  I  was  as  poor  as  Job,  and  monkeyed 
around  the  globe  in  indolent  vagrant 
style,  my  life  was  a  joyous  thing,  devoid  of  a 
smart  or  sting,  and  everything  seemed  to  smile. 
I  hadn't  a  bundle  then;  I  herded  with  homeless 
men,  and  padded  the  highway  dust;  and  care 
was  a  thing  unknown,  as  scarce  as  the  silver 
bone,  in  days  of  the  wanderlust.  But  now 
I  am  settled  down,  a  prop  to  this  growing  town, 
respectable  till  it  hurts;  and  I  have  a  bundle 
fat,  and  I  have  a  stovepipe  hat,  and  all  kinds 
of  scrambled  shirts.  I  puff  at  a  rich  cigar,  and 
ride  in  a  motor  car,  and  I  have  a  spacious  lawn ; 
and  diamonds  upon  me  shine ;  my  credit  is  simply 
fine,  the  newspapers  call  me  Hon.  But  Worry 
is  always  near,  a-whispering  in  my  ear  —  I'm 
tired  of  her  morbid  talks:  "  Suppose  that  the 
bank  should  bust  in  which  you  have  placed  your 
dust,  how  then  would  you  feel.  Old  Sox?  Sup 
pose  that  the  cyclones  swat  the  farms  you  have 
lately  bought  and  blow  them  clear  off  the  map? 
Suppose  that  your  mills  should  fail,  and  you 
were  locked  up  in  jail,  how  then  would  you 
feel,  old  chap?  "  Dame  Worry  is  always  there; 


she's  whitened  my  scanty  hair,  she's  cankered 
my  weary  breast;  she  never  goes  far  away:  she 
tortures  me  all  the  day  and  ruins  my  nightly 
rest.  And  often  at  night  I  sigh  for  a  couch 
'neath  the  open  sky  and  the  long  white  road 
again;  for  the  march  through  the  sifting  dust, 
and  the  lure  of  the  wanderlust  and  the  camp  of 
the  homeless  men. 


IMMORTAL  SANTA 


teacher  says  there  never  was  a  being  by  that 
name,  and  here  I  mourn  for  Santa  Claus,  and 
all  the  Christmas  game." 

"  Cheer  up,  my  little  girl,"  I  said,  "  for 
weeping  is  a  crime;  I'll  go  and  punch  that  teach 
er's  head  as  soon  as  I  have  time.  Old  Santa 
lives,  the  good  old  boy,  his  race  is  not  yet  run; 
and  he  will  bring  the  children  joy,  as  he  has 
always  done.  The  pedagogues  have  grown  too 
smart,  and  must  take  in  their  sails,  if  they  would 
break  a  maiden's  heart  by  telling  phony  tales." 

The  young  one,  anxious  to  believe  that  Santa's 
still  on  earth,  looked  up  and  smiled  and  ceased 
to  grieve,  and  chortled  in  her  mirth.  I  have  no 
use  for  folks  so  wise  that  legend  makes  them  sad, 
who  say  those  stories  are  but  lies  which  make 
the  children  glad.  For  Santa  lives,  and  that's 

there  is 
hands  that 


hoofs 


go 


tinkling  o'er  the  snow;  you  may  not  see  him 
climbing  roofs  to  reach  the  socks  below;  and 
down  the  sooty  chimney-hole  you  may  not  see 
him  slide  —  for  that  would  grieve  the  kindest 
soul,  and  scar  the  toughest  hide  —  but  still  he 
goes  his  rounds  and  tries  to  make  the  children 
gay,  and  there  is  laughter  in  his  eyes,  on  every 
Christmas  Day. 

You're  Santa  Glaus,  and  so  am  I,  and  so  is 
every  dad,  who  says  at  Christmas  time,  "  I'll 
try  to  make  the  young  hearts  glad!  "  All  other 
men  may  lay  them  down  and  go  to  rest  some 
day ;  the  homes  they  builded,  and  their  town 
may  crumble  in  decay;  and  governments  may 
rise  and  fall,  and  dynasties  may  lapse,  and  still, 
triumphant  over  all,  that  jolliest  of  chaps  will 
journey  through  the  snow  and  storm,  beneath 
the  midnight  sky;  while  souls  are  true  and  hearts 
are  warm,  old  Santa  shall  not  die. 


97 


THE  MEN  BEHIND 


PHE  firm  of  Jingleson  &  Jams,  which  manu- 
•»•  f  actured  wooden  hams,  has  closed  its  doors, 
and  in  the  mill,  the  wheels  and  shafting  all  stand 
still. 

This  mighty  business  was  upbuilt  by  Humper, 
Hooperman  &  Hilt,  who  kept  the  factory  on  the 
go  and  made  all  kinds  of  fancy  dough.  Their 
products  went  to  every  mart,  and  cheered  the 
retail  merchant's  heart,  and  made  consumers 
warble  psalms,  and  ask  for  more  of  those  elm 
hams.  These  owners  hired  the  ablest  men  that 
could  be  got  for  love  or  yen;  throughout  the  mill 
fine  workmen  wrought;  their  every  motion  hit 
the  spot;  and  expert  foremen  snooped  around, 
and  if  some  shabby  work  they  found,  the  riot  act 
they'd  promptly  speak,  in  Latin,  Choctaw,  Dutch 
and  Greek. 

The  finest  salesmen  in  the  land  were  selling 
hams  to  beat  the  band.  Old  Humper  said, 
"  No  ten-cent  skate  can  earn  enough  to  pay  the 
freight ;  cheap  men  are  evermore  a  frost  — 
they're  dear,  no  matter  what  they  cost.  We 
want  the  ablest  men  that  grow  —  no  other  kind 
will  have  a  show."  And  so  these  owners  gath- 


98 


ered  kale  until  the  game  seemed  old  and  stale, 
then  sold  their  mill  and  stock  of  hams  to  Messrs. 
Jrngleson  &  Jams. 

These  were  a  pair  of  cautious  gents,  who  had 
a  reverence  for  cents.  They  looked  around, 
with  eager  eyes,  for  chances  to  economize.  They 
had  the  willies  when  they  gazed  upon  the  pay 
roll —  they  were  dazed!  "Great  whiskers! 
Jingleson  exclaimed,  "  this  wilful  waste  makes 
me  ashamed!  This  salesman,  Jasper  Jimpson 
Jones,  draws,  every  month,  two  hundred  bones ! 
Why  I  can  hire  F.  Flimson  Flatt,  who'll  work 
I  know,  for  half  of  that!  " 

"  And  by  old  Pharaoh's  sacred  rams,"  re 
marked  his  partner,  Peter  Jams,  "  it's  that  way 
all  along  the  list;  old  Humper  must  be  crazed, 
I  wist!  We'll  cut  these  salaries  in  two  —  that 
is  the  first  thing  we  must  do! 

And  so  the  high-priced  expert  men  were  told 
to  go,  nor  come  again;  and  soon  the  shop  be 
gan  to  fill  with  chaps  who'd  neither  brains  nor 
skill.  The  payroll  slumped  —  which  made 
Jams  glad ;  but  so  did  trade  —  which  made  him 
mad.  The  product  lost  its  high  renown,  and 
merchants  turned  the  salesmen  down,  and  they 
sent  frantic  telegrams  to  weary  Jingleson  &  Jams. 


When  things  begin  down  hill  to  slide,  they 
rush,  and  will  not  be  denied,  and  so  there  came 
slump  after  slump  until  the  business  reached  the 
dump,  and  poor  old  Jingleson  &  Jams  are  mourn 
ful  as  a  pair  of  clams. 

Economy's  the  one  best  bet  —  but  some  kinds 
cost  like  blitzen,  yet! 


100 


THE  BARD  IN  THE  WOODS 

ALONG  the  forest's  virgin  aisles  I  walk  in 
rapture,  miles  on  miles;  at  every  turn  de 
lights  unfold,  and  wondrous  vistas  I  behold. 
What  noble  scenes  on  every  hand!  I  feel  my 
ardent  soul  expand;  I  turn  my  face  toward  the 
sky,  and  to  the  firmament  I  cry: 

"  The  derned  mosquitoes  —  how  they  bite! 
The  n>oods  would  be  a  pure  delight,  would  lure 
all  men  back  t°  the  soil,  if  these  blamed  brutes 
were  boiled  in  oil!  They  come  forth  buzzing 
from  their  dens,  and  they're  as  big  as  Leghorn 
hens,  and  when  they  bite  they  raise  a  lump  that 
makes  the  victim  yell  and  jump." 

What  wondrous  voices  have  the  trees  when 
they  are  rocked  by  morning  breeze !  The  voices 
of  a  thousand  lyres,  the  music  of  a  thousand 
choirs,  the  chorus  of  a  thousand  spheres  are  in 
the  noble  song  one  hears!  The  same  sad  music 
Adam  heard  when  through  the  Eden  groves  he 
stirred;  and  ever  since  the  primal  birth,  through 
all  the  ages  of  the  earth,  the  trees  have  whis 
pered,  chanted,  sung,  in  their  soft,  untranslated 
tongue.  And,  moved  to  tears,  I  cry  aloud,  far 
from  the  sordid  madding  crowd: 


101 


"  Doggone  these  measly,  red-backed  ants! 
They  will  keep  climbing  up  my  pants!  The 
woods  will  soon  be  shy  of  guests  unless  the  ants 
and  k^dred  pests  abolished  are  by  force  of  law; 
they've  chewed  me  up  till  I  am  raw." 

Here  in  these  sylvan  solitudes,  unfettered 
Nature  sweetly  broods;  she'd  clasp  her  offspring 
to  her  breast,  and  give  her  weary  children  rest, 
and  say  to  them,  "  No  longer  weep,  but  on  your 
mother's  bosom  sleep."  Here  mighty  thoughts 
disturb  my  brain  —  I  try  to  set  them  down  in 
vain ;  with  noble  songs  my  soul's  afire  —  I  can 
not  fit  them  to  my  lyre,  Elysian  views  awhile 
I've  seen  —  I  cannot  tell  you  what  they  mean ; 
adown  the  forest  aisles  I  stray,  and  face  the 
glowing  East,  and  say: 

"  It  must  have  been  a  bee,  by  heck!  that 
stung  me  that  time  on  the  neck!  It's  time  I 
trotted  back  t°  town,  and  got  those  swellings 
doctored  down!  With  bees  and  ants  and  wasps 
and  snakes  these  bosky  groves  and  tangled  brakes 
are  most  too  fierce  for  urban  bard  —  /  rather 
long  for  my  back  yard!  " 


102 


VALUES 


Hiram    Hucksmith 
green  wagons  with  red 
as  a  string  of  bells  in  his  old  age  he 
over  all  the  countryside  his  wagons  have  their 
fame,   and  Hiram  sees  with  wholesome  pride, 
the  prestige  of  his  name. 

He  always  tells  his  men:  "  By  jings,  my 
output  must  be  good!  Don't  ever  use  dishonest 
things  —  no  wormy  steel  or  wood ;  use  nothing 
but  the  choicest  oak,  use  silver  mounted  tacks, 
and  every  hub  and  every  spoke  must  be  as  sound 
as  wax.  I  want  the  men  who  buy  my  carts  to 
advertise  them  well;  I  do  not  wish  to  break  the 
hearts  of  folks  to  whom  I  sell." 

The  farmers  bought  those  wagons  green,  with 
wheels  of  sparkling  red,  and  worked  them  up 
and  down,  I  ween,  and  of  them  often  said: 
"  You  cannot  bust  or  wear  them  out,  and  if 
you'd  break  their  holt,  you'd  have  to  have  a 
waterspout  or  full-sized  thunderbolt.  The  way 
they  hang  together's  strange,  they  ought  to  break 
but  won't,  most  earthly  things  decay  or  change, 
but  these  blamed  wagons  don't." 

Old  Hiram's  heart  with  rapture  thrilled,  to 
hear  that  sort  of  stuff;  he  worked  and  worked 


103 


but  couldn't  build  his  wagons  fast  enough.  And 
now  he  lives  on  Easy  Street,  most  honored  of  all 
men  who  toddle  down  our  village  street,  and 
then  back  up  again. 

Old  Jabez  Jenkins  long  has  made  blue  wagons 
with  pink  spokes,  and  once  he  had  a  goodly 
trade  among  the  farmer  folks.  With  pride  his 
bosom  did  not  swell,  he  knew  not  to  aspire,  to 
get  up  wagons  that  would  sell  —  that  was  his 
one  desire.  And  so  he  made  his  wheels  of  pine, 
where  rosewood  should  have  been,  and  counted 
on  the  painting  fine,  to  hide  the  faults  within. 

And  often  when  this  sad  old  top  was  toiling 
in  his  shed,  a  customer  would  seek  his  shop  and 
deftly  punch  his  head.  Wherever  Jenkins* 
wagons  went,  disaster  with  them  flew;  the  tires 
came  off,  the  axles  bent,  the  kingbolts  broke  in 
two.  You'd  see  the  farmers  standing  guard 
above  their  ruined  loads,  and  springing  language 
by  the  yard  that  fairly  scorched  the  roads. 

This  Jenkins  now  is  old  and  worn,  his  busi 
ness  is  decayed;  and  he  can  only  sit  and  mourn 
o'er  dizzy  breaks  he  made.  Old  Hiram's  plan 
should  suit  all  men  who  climb  Trade's  rugged 
hill:  Give  value  for  the  shining  yen  you  put 
into  your  till. 


104 


STICKING  TO  IT 

1USED  to  run  a  beeswax  store  at  Punktown- 
in-the-HoIe,  and  people  asked  me  o'er  and 
o'er,  "  Why  don't  you  deal  in  coal?  The 
beeswax  trade  will  never  pay  —  you  know  that 
it's  a  sell;  if  you  take  in  ten  bones  a  day,  you 
think  you're  doing  well." 

Thus  spake  these  thoughtful  friends  of  mine; 
I  heard  their  rigmarole,  and  straightway  quit  the 
beeswax  line,  and  started  selling  coal.  I  built 
up  quite  a  trade  in  slate,  delivered  by  the  pound, 
and  just  when  I  could  pay  the  freight,  my  friends 
again  came  round.  "  Great  Scott!  "  they  cried, 
"you  ought  to  quit  this  dark  and  dirty  trade! 
To  clean  your  face  of  grime  and  grit  we'd  need 
a  hoe  and  spade!  Quit  dealing  in  such  dusty 
wares,  and  make  yourself  look  slick;  lay  in  a 
stock  of  Belgian  hares,  and  you'll  make  money 
quick." 

I  bought  a  thousand  Belgian  brutes,  and 
watched  them  beige  around,  and  said:  "  I'll 
fatten  these  galoots  and  sell  them  by  the  pound, 
and  then  I'll  have  all  kinds  of  kale,  to  pleasure 
to  devote;  around  this  blamed  old  world  I'll 


105 


sail  in  my  own  motor  boat."  But  when  the 
hares  were  getting  fat,  my  friends  began  to  hiss: 
"Great  Caesar!  Would  you  look  at  that! 
What  foolishness  is  this?  Why  wear  out  leg 
and  back  and  arm  pursuing  idle  fads?  You 
ought  to  have  a  ginseng  farm,  and  then  you'd 
nail  the  scads." 

The  scheme  to  me  seemed  good  and  grand; 
I  sold  the  Belgian  brutes,  and  then  I  bought  a 
strip  of  land  and  planted  ginseng  roots.  I  hoped 
to  see  them  come  up  strong,  and  tilled  them 
years  and  years,  until  the  sheriff  came  along  and 
took  me  by  the  ears.  And  as  he  pushed  me 
off  to  jail,  I  passed  that  beeswax  store;  the 
owner,  loaded  down  with  kale,  was  standing  in 
the  door.  "If  you  had  stayed  right  here,"  he 
said,  "you'd  now  be  doing  well;  you  would 
not  by  the  ears  be  led  toward  a  loathsome  cell. 
But  always  to  disaster  wends  the  man  who  has 
no  spine,  who  always  listens  to  his  friends,  and 
thinks  their  counsel  fine." 


106 


" THANKS " 

THE  lumber  man  wrapped  up  some  planks, 
for  which  I  paid  a  yen,  and  as  I  left  he 
murmured,  "Thanks!  I  hope  you'll  call 
again!  " 

Such  little  courtesies  as  this  make  business 
worth  the  while;  they  fill  a  customer  with  bliss 
and  give  his  mug  a  smile.  Politeness  never 
fails  to  win,  and  bring  the  trade  your  way; 
when  I  have  cash  I  blow  it  in  with  dealers 
blithe  and  gay. 

Of  course,  in  every  merchant's  joint,  there 
are  a  thousand  cares,  which  file  his  temper  to 
a  point,  and  give  his  brow  gray  hairs.  And  he 
should  have  a  goat,  no  doubt,  on  which  to  vent 
his  spite;  a  sawdust  dummy,  good  and  stout, 
should  do  for  that  all  right.  And  then,  when 
burdened  with  his  woe,  he  might  a  while  with 
draw,  and  to  the  basement  gaily  go,  and  smash 
that  dummy's  jaw.  And  when  he'd  sprained 
the  dummy's  back,  and  spoiled  its  starboard 
glim,  he  to  his  duties  would  retrack,  refreshed 
and  full  of  vim. 

Some  outlet  for  his  flowing  bile  —  on  this 


107 


each  man  depends ;  but  he  should  always  have  a 
smile  and  "  Thank  you  "  for  his  friends. 

When  I  am  needing  further  planks,  to  make 
a  chicken  pen,  I'll  seek  the  merchant  who  said, 
"  Thanks!  I  hope  you'll  come  again!  "  I  feel 
that  I  am  welcome  there,  in  that  man's  scantling 
store,  and  I  can  use  the  office  chair  or  sleep 
upon  the  floor.  His  cordial  treatment  makes  me 
pant  to  patronize  such  gents;  and  I  shall  wed 
his  maiden  aunt  and  borrow  fifty  cents. 

I'd  sing  his  praises  day  and  night,  if  singing 
were  allowed;  the  man  consistently  polite  will 
always  charm  the  crowd. 


108 


r 


brass 


the 


of  the 


ho 


pictures  ot  the  jays 
long  have  gone  their  divers  ways  and  come  no 
more,  alas! 

This  picture  is  of  Uncle  James,  who  quit 
these  futile  worldly  games  full  twenty  years 
ago;  up  yonder  by  the  village  church,  where  in 
his  pew  he  used  to  perch,  he  now  is  lying  low. 
Unheard  by  him  the  church  bell  chimes;  the 
grass  has  grown  a  score  of  times  above  his  sleep 
ing  form.  For  him  there  is  no  wage  or  price, 
with  him  the  weather  cuts  no  ice,  the  sunshine 
or  the  storm. 

Yet  here  he  sits  as  big  as  life,  as  dolled  up 
by  his  loving  wife,  "  to  have  his  picture  took." 
Though  dead  to  all  the  world  of  men,  yea, 
doubly  dead,  and  dead  again,  he  lives  in  this 
old  book.  His  long  side  whiskers,  north  and 
south,  stand  forth,  like  mudguards  for  his  mouth, 
his  treasure  and  his  pride.  With  joy  he  saw 
those  whiskers  sprout,  with  glee  he  saw  them 
broaden  out  his  face,  already  wide.  In  those 
sweet  days  of  Auld  Lang  Syne  the  men  con- 


109 


sidered  whiskers  fine  and  raised  them  by  the 
peck;  a  man  grew  whiskers  every  place  that 
they  would  grow  upon  his  face,  and  more  upon 
his  neck.  He  made  his  face  a  garden  spot,  and 
he  was  sad  that  he  could  not  grow  whiskers  on 
his  brow;  he  prized  his  whiskers  more  than 
mon  and  raised  his  spinach  by  the  ton  —  where 
are  those  whiskers  now? 

Oh,  ask  the  ghost  of  Uncle  James,  whose 
whiskers  grew  on  latticed  frames  —  at  least, 
they  look  that  way,  as  in  this  picture  they  ap 
pear,  this  photograph  of  yesteryear,  so  faded, 
dim  and  gray. 

My  Uncle  James  locks  sad  and  worn;  he 
wears  a  smile,  but  it's  forlorn,  a  grin  that  seems 
to  freeze.  And  one  can  hear  the  artist  say  — 
that  artist  dead  and  gone  his  way  —  "  Now, 
then,  look  pleasant,  please!  "  My  uncle's  eyes 
seem  full  of  tears.  What  wonder  when,  be 
neath  his  ears,  two  prongs  are  pressing  sore? 
They're  there  to  hold  his  head  in  place,  while 
he  presents  a  smiling  face  for  half  an  hour  or 
more.  The  minutes  drag  —  if  they'd  but  rush ! 
The  artist  stands  and  whispers,  "  Hush!  Don't 
breathe  or  wink  your  eyes!  Don't  let  your 


110 


straight 

It 

and  time  was  slow,  brought  back  by  this  old 
book;  there  were  no  anesthetics  then,  and  hor 
ror  filled  the  souls  of  men  who  "  had  their  pic 
tures  took."  Strange  thoughts  all  soulful  people 
hold,  when  poring  o'er  an  album  old,  the  book 
of  vanished  years.  The  dead  ones  seem  to  come 
again,  the  queer,  old-fashioned  dames  and  men, 
with  prongs  beneath  their  ears! 


ill 


WAR  AND  PEACE 

THE  bugles  sound,  the  prancing  chargers 
neigh,  and  dauntless  men  have  journeyed 
forth  to  slay.  Mild  farmer  lads  will  wade 
around  in  gore  and  shoot  up  gents  they  never 
saw  before.  Pale  dry  goods  clerks,  amid  war's 
wild  alarms,  pursue  the  foe  and  hew  off  legs  and 
arms.  The  long-haired  bards  forget  their 
metred  sins  and  walk  through  carnage  clear  up 
to  their  chins. 

"  My  country  calls!  "  the  loyal  grocer  cries, 
then  stops  a  bullet  with  his  form  and  dies. 
'  'Tis  glory  beckons!  "  cry  the  ardent  clerks; 
a  bursting  shell  then  hits  them  in  the  works. 
And  dark-winged  vultures  float  along  the  air, 
and  dead  are  piled  like  cordwood  everywhere. 
A  regiment  goes  forth  with  banners  gay;  a  mine 
explodes,  and  it  is  blown  away.  There  is  a 
shower  of  patriotic  blood;  some  bones  are  swim 
ming  in  the  crimson  mud.  Strong,  brave  young 
men,  who  might  be  shucking  corn,  thus  uselessly 
are  man 


igled, 


They 


glory 


when  a  fellow  falls,  his  midriff  split  by  whizzing 
cannon  balls;  but  there's  more  glory  in  a  field 


of  hay,  where  brave  men  work  for  fifteen  bits 
a  day. 

The  bugles  blow,  the  soldiers  ride  away,  to 
gather  glory  in  the  mighty  fray;  their  heads 
thrown  back,  their  martial  shoulders  squared  — 
what  sight  with  this  can  ever  be  compared  ?  And 
they  have  dreams  of  honors  to  be  won,  of 
wreaths  of  laurel  when  the  war  is  done.  The 
women  watch  the  soldiers  ride  away,  and  to 
iheir  homes  repair  to  weep  and  pray. 

No  bugles  sound  when  back  the  soldiers  come ; 
there  is  no  marching  to  die  beat  of  drum.  There 
are  no  chargers,  speckled  with  their  foam;  but 
one  by  one  the  soldiers  straggle  home.  With 
empty  sleeves,  with  wooden  legs  they  drill,  along 
the  highway,  up  the  village  hill.  Their  heads 
are  gray,  but  not  with  weight  of  years,  and  all 
the  sorrow  of  all  worlds  and  spheres  is  in  their 
eyes;  for  they  have  walked  with  Doom,  have 
seen  their  country  changed  into  a  tomb.  And 
one  comes  back  where  twenty  went  away,  and 
nineteen  widows  kneel  alone  and  pray. 

They  call  it  glory  —  oh,  let  glory  cease,  and 
give  the  world  once  more  the  boon  of  peace! 
I'd  rather  watch  the  farmer  go  afield  than  see 
the  soldier  buckle  on  his  shield!  I'd  rather  hear 


113 


the  reaper's  raucous  roar  than  hear  a  colonel 
clamoring  for  gore!  I'd  rather  watch  a  hired 
man  milk  a  cow,  and  hear  him  cussing  when  she 
kicks  his  brow,  than  see  a  major  grind  his 
snickersnee  to  split  a  skull  and  make  his  coun 
try  free!  I'd  rather  watch  the  grocer  sell  his 
cheese,  his  boneless  prunes  and  early  winter  peas, 
and  feed  the  people  at  a  modest  price,  than  see 
a  captain  whack  an  ample  slice,  with  sword  or 
claymore,  from  a  warlike  foe  —  for  peace  is 
weal,  and  war  is  merely  woe. 


114 


THE  CROOKS 

THE  people  who  beat  you,  hornswoggle  and 
cheat  you,  don't  profit  for  long  from  the 
kale;  for  folks  who  are  tricky  find  Nemesis 
sticky  —  it  never  abandons  their  trail.  I've 
often  been  cheated;  the  trick's  been  repeated  so 
often  I  cannot  keep  tab;  but  ne'er  has  the  duf 
fer  who  thus  made  me  suffer  been  much  better 
off  for  his  grab.  It  pays  not  to  swindle;  dis 
honest  rolls  dwindle  like  snow  when  exposed  to 
the  sun;  like  feathers  in  Tophet  is  burned  up 
the  profit  of  cheating,  the  crooked  man's  mon. 
The  people  who  sting  me  unknowingly  bring  me 
philosophy  fresh,  by  the  crate ;  I  don't  get  excited 
—  my  wrongs  will  be  righted,  by  Nemesis,  For 
tune,  or  Fate.  I  know  that  the  stingers  — 
they  think  they  are  dingers,  and  gloat  o'er  the 
coin  they  don't  earn  —  I  know  they'll  be  busted 
and  sick  and  disgusted,  while  I  still  have  rubles 
to  burn.  I'd  rather  be  hollow  with  hunger 
than  follow  the  course  that  the  tricksters  pursue; 
I'd  rather  be  "  easy  "  than  do  as  the  breezy 
and  conscienceless  gentlemen  do.  Far  better 
the  shilling  you've  earned  by  the  tilling  of  soil 


116 


tat  is  harder  than  bricks,  than  any  old  dollar 
you  manage  to  collar  by  crooked  and  devious 
tricks. 


116 


THE  TRAMP 

HIS  hair  is  long,  his  breath  is  strong,  his  hat 
is  old  and  battered,  his  knees  are  sprung, 
his  nerves  unstrung,  his  clothes  are  badly  tattered, 
his  shoes  are  worn,  his  hide's  been  torn  by  bow 
wows  fierce  and  snarling;  and  yet,  by  heck! 
this  tough  old  wreck  was  once  some  daddy's 
darling! 

He  still  must  hit  the  ties  and  grit.  A  dis 
mal  fate  is  his'n;  for  if  he  stops,  the  village 
cops  will  slam  him  into  prison.  Some  hayseed 
judge  would  make  him  trudge  out  where  the 
rock  pile's  lying,  to  labor  there,  in  his  despair, 
till  next  year's  snows  are  flying.  The  women 
shy  when  he  goes  by;  with  righteous  wrath  they 
con  him.  Men  give  him  kicks  and  hand  him 
bricks  and  train  their  shotguns  on  him.  His 
legs  are  sprained,  his  fetlocks  strained,  from 
climbing  highways  hilly;  it's  hard  to  think  this 
seedy  gink  was  someone's  little  Willie! 

And  yet  'tis  so.  Once,  long  ago,  some  dad 
of  him  was  bragging,  and  matrons  mild  sur 
veyed  the  child  and  set  their  tongues  a-wagging. 
"  What  lovely  eyes!  "  one  woman  cries. 
"They  look  like  strips  of  heaven!  "  "And 


117 


note  his  hairs!  "  a  dame  declares.  "  I've 
counted  six  or  seven!  "  "  His  temper's  sweet," 
they  all  repeat;  "  he  makes  no  fuss  or  bother. 
He  has  a  smile  that's  free  from  guile  —  he 
looks  just  like  his  father!  "  Thus  women 
talked  as  he  was  rocked  to  slumber  in  his  cradle ; 
they  filled  with  praise  his  infant  days,  poured 
taffy  with  a  ladle. 

And  ma  and  dad,  with  bosoms  glad,  planned 
futures  for  the  creature.  "  I'll  have  my  way," 
the  wife  would  say;  "  the  child  must  be  a 
preacher!  His  tastes  are  pure,  of  that  I'm  sure," 
she  says,  with  optimism;  "  for  when  he  strays 
around  and  plays,  he  grabs  the  catechism! 
"  Ah,  well,"  says  dad,  "  the  lovely  lad  will 
reach  great  heights  —  I  know  it.  I  have  the 
dope  that  he'll  beat  Pope  or  Byron  as  a  poet." 

To  give  him  toys  and  bring  him  joys,  the  sav 
ings  bank  was  burgled;  folks  cried,  "  Gee  whiz! 
How  cute  he  is!  "  whenever  baby  gurgled. 

His  feet  are  bare,  his  matted  hair  could  not 
be  combed  with  harrows;  his  garb  is  weird,  and 
in  his  beard  are  bobolinks  and  sparrows.  You'd 
never  think,  to  see  the  gink,  that  ever  he  had 
parents!  Can  it  be  so  that  long  ago  he  was 
somebody's  Clarence? 


118 


THE  DOLOROUS  WAY 


AS  a  mortal  man  grows  older  he  has  pains 
**in  hoof  or  shoulder,  by  a  thousand  aches 
and  wrenches  all  his  weary  frame  is  torn;  he 
has  headache  and  hay  fever  till  he  is  a  stout 
believer  in  the  theory  of  the  poet  that  the  race 
was  made  to  mourn.  He  has  gout  or  rheu 
matism  and  he's  prone  to  pessimism,  and  he 
takes  a  thousand  balsams,  and  the  bottles  strew 
the  yard;  he  has  grip  and  influenzy  till  his  soul 
is  in  a  frenzy,  and  he  longs  to  end  the  journey, 
for  this  life  is  beastly  hard.  And  his  system's 
revolution  is  Dame  Nature's  retribution  for  the 
folly  of  his  conduct  in  the  days  of  long  ago;  in 
his  anguish  nearly  fainting  he  is  paying  for  the 
painting,  for  the  wassail  and  the  ruffling  that  his 
evenings  used  to  know.  We  may  dance  and 
have  our  inning  in  our  manhood's  bright  begin 
ning,  but  we  all  must  pay  the  fiddler,  pay  him 
soon  or  pay  him  late,  and  a  million  men  are  pay 
ing  for  the  dancing  and  the  playing,  who  are 
charging  up  their  troubles  to  misfortune  or  to 
fate. 


119 


LOOKING  FORWARD 


peaceful 

grin.  I  find  it  hard  to  realize  that  sun  and 
moon  and  stars  will  shine,  that  clouds  will  drift 
along  the  skies,  when  everlasting  sleep  is  mine. 
What  is  the  use  of  keeping  up  the  long  proces 
sion  of  the  spheres,  when  I'm  beneath  the  butter 
cup,  with  gumbo  in  my  eyes  and  ears?  What 
is  the  use  of  dusk  or  dawn,  of  starless  dark  or 
glaring  light,  when  I  from  all  these  scenes  am 
gone,  down  to  a  million  years  of  night?  Young 
men  will  vow  the  same  sweet  vows,  and  maids 
with  beating  hearts  will  hear,  beneath  the  church 
yard  maple's  boughs,  and  reck  not  that  I'm  rest 
ing  near.  And  to  the  altar,  up  the  aisle,  the 
blooming  brides  of  June  will  go,  and  bells  will 
ring  and  damsels  smile,  and  I'll  be  too  blamed 
dead  to  know.  Ah,  well,  I've  had  my  share  of 
fun,  I've  lived  and  loved  and  shut  the  door; 
and  when  this  little  journey's  done,  I'll  go  to 
rest  without  a  roar. 


120 


SEEING  THE  WORLD 

TIE  jogged  around  from  town  to  town,  "  to 
*  •!•  see  the  world,"  was  his  excuse;  he'd  get 
a  job  and  hold  it  down  a  little  while,  then  turn 
it  loose.  "Oh,  stay,"  employers  use  to  say; 
"  your  moving  is  a  foolish  trick;  you'll  soon  be 
earning  bigger  pay,  for  we'll  promote  you  pretty 
quick."  "  This  town  is  punk,"  he  would  reply, 
"  and  every  street  is  surnamed  Queer;  I'd  see  the 
world  before  I  die  —  I  do  not  wish  to  stagnate 
here."  Then  he  was  young  and  quick  and 
strong,  and  jobs  were  thick,  as  he  jogged  by, 
till  people  passed  the  word  along  that  on  him 
no  one  could  rely.  Then,  when  he  landed  in  a 
town,  and  wished  to  earn  a  humble  scad,  the 
stern  employers  turned  him  down  —  "  we  want 
you  not,  your  record's  bad."  He's  homeless  in 
these  wintry  days,  he  has  no  bed,  no  place  to 
sup;  he  "  saw  the  world  "  in  every  phase;  the 
world  saw  him  —  and  passed  him  up.  It's  good 
to  "  see  the  world,"  no  doubt,  but  one  should 
make  his  bundle  first,  or  age  will  find  him  down 
and  out,  panhandling  for  the  Wienerwurst. 


121 


THE  POLITE  MAN 


WHEN  Wigglewax  is  on  the  street,  a 
charming  smile  adorns  his  face;  to  every 
dame  he  haps  to  meet,  he  bows  with  courtly, 
old  world  grace.  His  seat,  when  riding  in  a 
car,  to  any  girl  he'll  sweetly  yield;  and  women 
praise  him  near  and  far,  and  say  he  is  a  Chester 
field.  Throughout  the  town,  from  west  to  east, 
the  man  for  chivalry  is  famed.  "  The  Bayards 
are  not  all  deceased,"  the  women  say,  when  he 
is  named.  At  home  this  Bayard  isn't  thus;  his 
eye  is  fierce,  his  face  is  sour;  he  looks  around 
for  things  to  cuss,  and  jaws  the  women  by  the 
hour.  His  daughters  tremble  at  his  frown,  and 
wonder  why  he's  such  a  bear;  his  wife  would 
like  to  jump  the  town,  and  hide  herself  most  any 
where.  But  if  a  visitor  drops  in,  his  manner 
changes  with  a  jerk,  he  wears  his  false  and  shal 
low  grin,  and  bows  like  some  jimtwisted  Turk. 
Then  for  his  daughters  and  his  wife  he  wears 
his  smile  serene  and  fat,  and  callers  say,  "  No 
sordid  strife  can  enter  such  a  home  as  that!  " 
A  million  frauds 
on  the  streets 


lewax 


today, 


:  smiii 
they  s 


hacks,  they'll  beef  and  grouch,   the  old 


122 


UNCONQUERED 


I  ET  tribulation's  waters  roll,  and  drench  me 
••—'as  I  don't  deserve!  I  am  the  captain  of 
my  soul,  I  am  the  colonel  of  my  nerve.  Don't 
say  my  boasting's  out  of  place,  don't  greet 
me  with  a  jeer  or  scoff;  I've  met  misfortune  face 
to  face,  and  pulled  its  blooming  whiskers  off. 
For  I  have  sounded  all  the  deeps  of  poverty  and 
ill  and  woe,  and  that  old  smile  I  wear  for  keeps 
still  pushed  my  features  to  and  fro.  Oh,  I  have 
walked  the  wintry  streets  all  night  because  I  had 
no  bed;  and  I  have  hungered  for  the  eats,  and 
no  one  handed  me  the  bread.  And  I  have 
herded  with  the  swine  like  that  old  prodigal  of 
yore,  and  this  elastic  smile  of  mine  upon  my 
countenance  I  wore.  For  I  believed  and  still 
believe  that  nothing  ill  is  here  to  stay;  the 
woozy  woe,  that  makes  us  grieve,  tomorrow  will 
be  blown  away.  My  old  time  griefs  went  up 
in  smoke,  and  I  remain  a  giggling  bard;  I  look 
on  trouble  as  a  joke,  and  chortle  when  it  hits 
me  hard.  It's  all  your  attitude  of  mind  that 
makes  you  gay  or  sad,  my  boy,  that  makes 
your  work  a  beastly  grind,  or  makes  it  seem  a 


123 


round  of  joy.  The  mind  within  me  governs  all, 
and  brings  me  gladness  or  disgust;  I  am  the 
captain  of  my  gall,  I  am  the  major  of  my  crust 


124 


REGULAR  HOURS 


1HIT  the  hay  at  ten  o'clock,  and  then  I  sleep 
around  the  block,  till  half  past  five;  I  hear 
the  early  robin's  voice,  and  see  the  sunrise,  and 
rejoice  that  I'm  alive.  From  pain  and  katzen- 
jammer  free,  my  breakfast  tastes  as  good  to  me 
as  any  meal;  I  throw  in  luscious  buckwheat 
cakes,  and  scrambled  eggs  and  sirloin  steaks, 
and  breaded  veal.  And  as  downtown  I  gayly 
wend,  I  often  overtake  a  friend  who's  gone  to 
waste;  "  I  stayed  up  late  last  night,"  he  sighs, 
"  and  now  I  have  two  bloodshot  eyes,  and  dark 
brown  taste;  I'd  give  a  picayune  to  die,  for  I'm 
so  full  of  grief  that  I  can  hardly  walk;  I'll  have 
to  brace  the  drugstore  clerks  and  throw  some 
bromo  to  my  works,  or  they  will  balk."  But 
yesterday  I  saw  a  man  to  whom  had  been  at 
tached  the  can  by  angry  boss,  he  wassailed  all 
the  night  away,  and  then  showed  up  for  work 
by  day  a  total  loss.  Don't  turn  the  night  time 
into  day,  or  loaf  along  the  Great  White  Way  — 
that  habit  grows;  if  to  the  front  you  hope  to 
keep,  you  must  devote  your  nights  to  sleep  —  I 
tell  you  those. 


125 


PLANTING  A  TREE 


TO  be  in  line  with  worthy  folk,  you  soon 
must  plant  an  elm  or  oak,  a  beech  or 
maple  fair  to  see,  a  single  or  a  double  tree. 
When  winter's  storms  no  longer  roll,  go,  get  a 
spade  and  dig  a  hole,  and  bring  a  sapling  from 
the  woods,  and  show  your  neighbors  you're  the 
goods.  What  though  with  years  you're  bowed 
and  bent,  and  feel  your  life  is  nearly  spent?  The 
tree  you  plant  will  rear  its  limbs,  and  there  the 
birds  will  sing  their  hymns,  and  in  its  cool  and 
grateful  shade  the  girls  will  sip  their  lemonade; 
and  lovers  there  on  moonlight  nights  will  get  Dan 
Cupid  dead  to  rights;  and  fervid  oaths  and  ten 
der  vows  will  go  a-zipping  through  its  boughs. 
And  folks  will  say,  with  gentle  sigh,  "  Long  years 
ago  an  ancient  guy,  whose  whiskers  brushed 
against  his  knee,  inserted  in  the  ground  this  tree. 
'Twas  but  a  little  sapling  then;  and  he,  the 
kindest  of  old  men,  was  well  aware  that  he'd 
be  dead,  long  ere  its  branches  grew  and  spread, 
but  still  he  stuck  it  in  the  mould,  and  never  did 
his  feet  grow  cold.  Oh,  he  was  wise  and  kind 
and  brave  —  let's  place  a  nosegay  on  his 
grave! 


1-26 


DREAMERS  AND  WORKERS 

'  I  ^HE  dreamers  sit  and  ponder  on  distant 
*  things  and  dim,  across  the  skyline  yonder, 
where  unknown  planets  swim;  they  roam  the 
starry  reaches  —  at  least,  they  think  they  do  — 
with  patches  on  their  breeches  and  holes  in  either 
shoe.  The  workers  still  are  steaming  around  at 
useful  chores;  they  always  save  their  dreaming 
for  night,  to  mix  with  snores.  They're  toiling 
on  their  places,  they're  raising  roastin'  ears,  they 
are  not  keeping  cases  on  far,  uncharted  spheres. 
They're  growing  beans  and  carrots,  and  hay 
that  can't  be  beat,  while  dreamers  in  their  gar 
rets  have  not  enough  to  eat.  Oh,  now  and  then 
a  dreamer  is  most  unduly  smart,  and  shows  he 
is  a  screamer  in  letters  or  in  art;  but  where  one 
is  a  winner,  ten  thousand  dreamers  weep  be 
cause  they  lack  a  dinner,  and  have  no  place  to 
sleep.  There  is  a  streak  of  yellow  in  dreamers, 
as  a  class;  the  worker  is  the  fellow  who  makes 
things  come  to  pass;  he  keeps  the  forges  burn 
ing,  the  dinner  pail  he  fills,  he  keeps  the  pulleys 
turning  in  forty  thousand  mills.  The  man  with 
dreams  a-plenty,  who  lives  on  musty  prunes,  be 
side  him  looks  like  twenty  or  eighteen  picayunes. 


SPRING  SICKNESS 

THIS  is  the  season  when  the  blood,  accord 
ing  to  the  learned  physician,  is  thick  and 
flows  as  slow  as  mud,  which  puts  a  man  in  bad 
condition.  Spring  sickness  is  a  fell  disease,  ac 
cording  to  our  time-worn  notions,  and,  having 
it,  the  victim  flees,  to  blow  himself  for  dopes  and 
potions.  "  I  have  to  thin  the  sluggish  stream," 
he  says,  "  which  through  my  system  passes;  it's 
thicker  now  than  cheap  ice  cream,  and  flows 
like  New  Orleans  molasses."  From  all  spring 
ills  he'd  have  release,  if  he  would  tramp  his 
potions  under,  and  get  a  jar  of  Elbow  Grease, 
the  medicine  that's  cheap  as  thunder.  To  get 
out  doors  where  breezes  blow,  and  tinker 
'round  to  beat  the  dickens,  would  make  a  lot  of 
ailments  go,  and  thin  the  blood  that  winter 
thickens.  Instead  of  taking  pale  pink  pills  which 
are  designed  for  purple  parties,  go,  plant  the 
spuds  in  shallow  hills,  and  you'll  be  feeling  fine, 
my  hearties!  We  are  too  fond  of  taking  dope, 
while  in  our  easy  chairs  reclining,  when  we 
should  shed  our  coats  and  slope  out  yonder  where 
the  sun  is  shining. 


128 


ON  THE  BRIDGE 


1  STOOD  on  the  bridge  at  midnight,  and 
looked  at  the  sizzling  town,  where  the  pleas 
ure  seeking  people  were  holding  the  sidewalks 
down.  The  moon  rose  over  the  city  and  shone 
on  the  dames  and  gents,  but  the  glare  of  the 
lights  electric  made  it  look  like  twenty  cents. 
The  windows  of  homes  were  darkened,  for  no 
one  was  staying  there;  the  children,  as  well,  as 
grownups,  were  all  in  the  Great  White  Glare. 
Deserted  were  all  the  firesides,  abandoned  the 
old-time  game;  alas,  that  the  old  home  circle  is 
naught  but  an  empty  name!  The  father  is  out 
chug-chugging,  the  mother  is  at  her  club,  the 
kids  see  the  moving  pictures,  and  go  to  hotels 
for  grub.  How  often,  oh,  how  often,  in  the 
days  that  seemed  good  to  me,  have  I  looked 
at  the  children  playing  at  home,  where  they 
ought  to  be!  How  often,  oh,  how  often,  in 
those  days  of  the  proper  stamp,  have  I  gazed  on 
the  parents  reading,  at  home,  by  the  evening 
lamp!  But  the  world  has  gone  to  thunder, 
forgotten  that  elder  day;  and  I  took  up  the 
bridge  and  broke  it,  and  threw  all  the  chunks 
away. 


129 


MR.  CHUCKLEHEAD 


HE  shuts  the  windows,  and  shuts  the  doors, 
and  then  he  lies  in  his  bed  and  snores, 
and  breathes  old  air  that  is  stale  and  flat  —  the 
kind  of  air  that  would  kill  a  cat.  He  says 
next  day:  "  I  am  feeling  tough;  I'll  have  to 
visit  old  Dr.  Guff,  and  buy  a  pint  of  his  pale 
pink  pills,  or  I  shall  harbor  some  fatal  ills." 

He  fills  his  system  with  steaks  and  pies,  and 
never  indulges  in  exercise.  He  eats  and  drinks 
of  the  market's  best,  until  the  buttons  fly  off  his 
vest;  he's  grown  so  mighty  of  breadth  and  girth 
that  when  he  gambols  he  shakes  the  earth.  "  I'll 
see  Doc  Faker,"  he  says;  "  that's  flat;  I'll  get 
his  dope  for  reducing  fat.  Doc  Faker  says  he 
can  make  me  gaunt,  and  let  me  eat  all  the  stuff 
I  want." 

He  sits  and  mopes  in  his  study  chair,  while 
others  toil  in  the  open  air.  He  quaffs  iced  drinks 
through  the  sultry  day,  electric  fans  on  his  person 
play.  "I  feel  despondent,"  he  murmurs  low; 
"  I  lack  the  vim  that  I  used  to  know;  my  liver's 
loose  and  my  kidneys  balk,  and  my  knee  joints 
creak  when  I  try  to  walk.  I'll  call  Doc  Clinker 


130 


and  have  him  bring  his  Compound  Juice  of  the 
Flowers  of  Spring." 

His  head  is  bald  where  the  tresses  grew  in 
the  long  gone  days  when  his  scalp  was  new.  He 
won't  believe  that  the  hair  won't  grow  where 
it  lost  its  grip  in  the  long  ago.  He  tries  all  man 
ner  of  dope  and  drug;  he  buys  Hair  Balm  by 
the  gallon  jug ;  he  reads  the  papers  and  almanacs 
for  news  concerning  the  Mystic  Wax  which 
surely  maketh  the  wool  appear  on  heads  gone 
bare  in  the  yesteryear. 

The  more  he  uses  of  patent  dopes,  the  more 
he  worries,  the  more  he  mopes.  And  all  he 
needs  to  be  blithe  and  gay  is  just  to  throw  his 
old  jugs  away,  to  do  some  work,  as  his  fathers 
toiled,  to  let  in  air  that  has  not  been  spoiled, 
to  rest  his  stomach  and  work  his  thews,  quit 
pressing  coat  tails  and  shake  his  shoes.  If 
Chucklehead  and  his  tribe  did  this,  they'd  soon 
find  health,  which  is  short  for  bliss;  and  old  Doc 
Faker  and  all  his  gang  would  close  their  offices 
and  go  hang. 


131 


IN  THE  SPRING 

IN  the  spring  the  joyous  husband  hangs  the 
carpet  on  the  line,  and  assaults  it  with  a  horse 
whip  till  its  colors  fairly  shine ;  and  the  dust  that 
rises  from  it  fills  the  alley  and  the  court,  and  he 
murmurs,  'twixt  his  sneezes:  "  This  is  surely 
splendid  sport! 

In  the  spring  the  well-trained  husband  wrestles 
with  the  heating  stove,  while  the  flippant-minded 
neighbors  go  a-fishing  in  a  drove.  With  the  pipes 
and  wire  he  tinkers,  and  his  laughter  fills  the 
place,  when  the  wholesome  soot  and  ashes  gather 
on  his  hands  and  face;  and  he  says:  "  I'd  like 
to  labor  at  this  task  from  sun  to  sun ;  this  is  what 
I  call  diversion  —  this  is  pure  and  perfect  fun! 

In  the  spring  the  model  husband  carries  fur 
niture  outdoors,  and  he  gayly  helps  the  women 
when  they  want  to  paint  the  floors;  and  he 
blithely  eats  his  supper  sitting  on  the  cellar  stairs, 
for  he  knows  his  wife  has  varnished  all  the 
tables  and  the  chairs.  Oh,  he  carries  pails  of 
water,  and  he  carries  beds  and  ticks,  and  he 
props  up  the  veranda  with  a  wagonload  of 
bricks,  and  he  deftly  spades  the  garden,  and  he 
paints  the  barn  and  fence,  and  he  rakes  and 


132 


burns  the  rubbish  with  an  energy  intense,  saying 
ever  as  he  labors,  in  the  house  or  out  of  doors: 
"  How  I  wish  my  wife  and  daughters  could 
suggest  some  other  chores! 

In  the  spring  this  sort  of  husband  may  be 
found — there's  one  in  Spain,  there  is  one  in 
South  Dakota  and  another  one  in  Maine. 


133 


BE  JOYFUL 

YOU'D  better  be  joking  than  kicking  or 
croaking,  you'd  better  be  saying  that  life  is 
a  joy,  then  folks  will  caress  you  and  praise  you 
and  bless  you,  and  say  you're  a  peach  and  a 
broth  of  a  boy.  You'd  better  be  cheery,  not 
drooling  and  dreary,  from  the  time  you  get  up 
till  you  go  to  your  couch;  or  people  will  hate 
you  and  roast  and  berate  you  —  they  don't  like 
the  man  with  a  hangover  grouch.  You'd  better 
be  leaving  the  groaning  and  grieving  to  men  who 
have  woes  of  the  genuine  kind;  you  know  that 
your  troubles  are  fragile  as  bubbles,  they  are 
but  the  growth  of  a  colicky  mind.  You'd  bet 
ter  be  grinning  while  you  have  your  inning,  or 
when  a  real  trouble  is  racking  your  soul,  your 
friends  will  be  growling,  "  He  always  is  howl 
ing  —  he  wouldn't  touch  joy  with  a  twenty-foot 
pole."  You'd  better  be  pleasant;  if  sorrow  is 
present,  there's  no  use  in  chaining  it  fast  to  your 
door;  far  better  to  shoo  it,  and  hoot  and  pur 
sue  it,  and  then  it  may  go  and  come  back  never 
more. 


134 


GOOD  AND  EVIL 

THE  poet  got  his  facts  awry,  concerning 
what  lives  after  death;  the  good  men  do 
lives  on  for  aye,  the  evil  passes  like  a  breath.  A 
noble  thought,  by  thinker  thunk,  will  live  and 
flourish  through  the  years;  a  thought  ignoble 
goes  kerplunk,  to  perish  in  a  pool  of  tears.  Man 
dies,  and  folks  around  his  bed  behold  his  tran 
quil,  outworn  clay;  "  We'll  speak  no  evil  of  the 
dead,  but  recollect  the  good,"  they  say.  Then 
one  recalls  some  noble  trait  which  figured  in  the 
ice-cold  gent.  "  He  fixed  the  Widow  John- 
sing's  gate,  and  wouldn't  charge  a  doggone 
cent."  "  Oh,  he  was  grand  when  folks  were 
ill;  he'd  stay  and  nurse  them  night  and  day, 
hand  them  the  bolus  and  the  pill,  and  never 
hint  around  for  pay."  "  He  ran  three  blocks 
to  catch  my  wig  when  April  weather  was  at 
large."  "  He  butchered  Mrs.  Jagway's  pig,  and 
smoked  the  hams,  and  didn't  charge."  Thus 
men  conspire,  to  place  on  file  and  make  a  record 
of  the  good,  and  they'd  forget  the  mean  or 
vile  for  which,  perhaps,  in  life  you  stood.  The 
shining  heroes  we  admire  had  faults  and  vices 
just  like  you;  when  they  concluded  to  expire, 
their  failings  kicked  the  bucket,  too. 


BROWN  OCTOBER  ALE 


HOW  many  ringing  songs  there  are  that  cel 
ebrate  the  wine,  and  other  goods  behind 
the  bar,  as  being  wondrous  fine!  How  many 
choruses  exalt  the  brown  October  ale,  which 
puts  a  fellow's  wits  at  fault,  and  lands  him  in 
the  jail!  A  hundred  poets  wasted  ink,  and 
ruined  good  quill  pens,  describing  all  the  joys  of 
drink  in  gilded  boozing  kens.  But  all  those 
joys  are  hollow  fakes  which  wisdom  can't  in 
dorse;  they're  soon  converted  into  aches  and 
sorrow  and  remorse.  The  man  who  drains  the 
brimming  glass  in  haunts  of  light  and  song,  next 
morning  knows  that  he's  an  ass,  with  ears  twelve 
inches  long.  An  aching  head,  a  pile  of  debts, 
a  taste  that's  green  and  stale,  that's  what  the 
merry  fellow  gets  from  brown  October  ale.  Un 
timely  graves  and  weeping  wives  and  orphans 
shedding  brine;  this  sort  of  thing  the  world 
derives  from  bright  and  sparkling  wine.  The 
prison  cell,  the  scaffold  near;  such  features  may 
be  blamed  on  wholesome  keg  and  bottled  beer, 
which  made  one  city  famed.  Oh,  sing  of  mud 
or  axle  grease,  but  chant  no  fairy  tale,  of  that 
disturber  of  the  peace,  the  brown  October  ale! 


136 


DELIVER  US 

FROM  all  the  woe  and  sorrow  that  bloody 
warfare  brings,  when  monarchs  start  to  bor 
row  some  grief  from  other  kings,  from  dreadful 
scenes  of  slaughter,  and  dead  men  by  the  cord, 
from  blood  that  flows  like  water,  deliver  us,  O 
Lord!  From  fear  and  melancholy  that  every 
death  list  gives,  from  all  the  pompous  folly  in 
which  an  army  lives,  from  all  the  strife  stu 
pendous,  that  brings  no  sane  reward,  but  only 
loss  tremendous,  deliver  us,  O  Lord!  From 
seeing  friend  and  neighbor  in  tools  of  death 
arrayed,  deserting  useful  labor  to  wield  the 
thirsty  blade;  from  seeing  plowshares  lying  all 
rusty  on  the  sward,  where  men  and  boys  are 
dying,  deliver  us,  O  Lord!  From  seeing  for 
eign  legions  invade  our  peaceful  shore,  and  turn 
these  smiling  regions  to  scenes  of  death  and 
gore,  from  all  the  desolation  the  gods  of  war 
accord  to  every  fighting  nation,  deliver  us,  O 
Lord! 


DOING  ONE'S  BEST 


o 


NE  sweetly  solemn  thought  comes  t 

every  night;  I  at  my  task  have  wrought, 
and  tried  to  do  it  right.  No  doubt  my  work 
is  punk,  my  efforts  are  a  jest;  however  poor  my 
junk,  it  represents  my  best.  If  you,  at  close  of 
day,  when  sounds  the  quitting  bell,  that  truth 
fully  can  say,  you're  doing  pretty  well.  Some 
beat  you  galley  west,  and  bear  away  the  prize, 
but  you  have  done  your  best  —  in  that  the 
honor  lies.  And,  having  done  your  best,  your 
conscience  doesn't  hurt;  serene  you  go  to  rest, 
in  your  long  muslin  shirt.  And  at  the  close  of 
life,  when  you  have  said  good-bye  to  cousin,  aunt 
and  wife,  and  all  the  children  nigh,  you'll  face 
the  river  cold  that  flows  to  islands  blest,  with 
courage  high  and  bold,  if  you  have  done  your 
best.  No  craven  fears  you'll  know,  no  terrors 
fierce  and  sharp,  but  like  a  prince  you'll  go,  to 
draw  your  crown  and  harp.  So,  then,  whate'er 
the  field  in  which  you  do  your  stunt,  whatever 
tool  you  wield  to  earn  your  share  of  blunt,  toil 
on  with  eager  zest,  nor  falter  in  that  plan;  the 
one  who  does  his  best  is  God's  blue-ribbon 


138 


A  LITTLE  WHILE 

A  FEW  more  years,  or  a  few  more  days, 
and  we'll  all  be  gone  from  the  rugged 
ways  wherein  we  are  jogging  now;  a  few  more 
seasons  of  stress  and  toil,  then  we'll  all  turn  in 
to  enrich  the  soil,  for  some  future  farmer's  plow. 
A  few  more  years  and  the  grass  will  grow  where 
you  and  the  push  are  lying  low,  your  arduous 
labors  o'er;  and  those  surviving  will  toil  and 
strain,  their  bosoms  full  of  the  same  old  pain 
you  knew  in  the  days  of  yore.  Oh,  what's  the 
use  of  the  carking  care,  or  the  load  of  grief  that 
we  always  bear,  in  such  a  brief  life  as  this?  A 
few  more  years  and  we  will  not  know  a  side  of 
beef  from  a  woozy  woe,  an  ache  from  a  bridal 
kiss.  "  I  fear  the  future,"  you  trembling  say, 
and  nurse  your  fear  in  a  dotard  way,  and 
moisten  it  with  a  tear;  the  future  day  is  a  day 
unborn,  and  you'll  be  dead  on  its  natal  morn, 
so  live  while  the  present's  here.  A  few  more 
years  and  you  cannot  tell  a  quart  of  tears  from 
a  wedding  bell,  a  wreath  from  a  beggar's  rags; 
you'll  take  a  ride  to  the  place  of  tombs  in  a 
jaunty  hearse  with  its  nodding  plumes,  and  a 
pair  of  milk-black  nags.  So  while  you  stay  on 


139 


the  old  gray  earth,  cut  up  and  dance  with  ex 
ceeding  mirth,  have  nothing  to  do  with  woe;  a 
few  more  years  and  you  cannot  weep,  you'll  be 
so  quiet  and  sound  asleep,  where  the  johnnie- 
jumpups  grow. 


THE  IDLERS 

MEN  labor  against  the  hames,  and  sweat 
tiH  they're  old  and  gray,  supporting  the 
stall-fed  dames  who  idle  their  years  away. 
We've  bred  up  a  futile  race  of  women  who 
have  no  care,  except  for  enameled  face,  or 
a  sea-green  shade  of  hair,  who  always  are  richly 
gowned  and  wearing  imported  lids,  who  carry 
their  poodles  'round,  preferring  the  pups  to  kids. 
And  husbands  exhaust  their  frames,  and  strain 
till  their  journey's  done,  supporting  the  stall-fed 
dames,  who  never  have  toiled  or  spun.  We're 
placed  in  this  world  to  work,  to  harvest  our  crop 
of  prunes;  Jehovah  abhors  the  shirk,  in  gown 
or  in  trouserloons.  The  loafers  in  gems  and 
silk  are  bad  as  the  fragrant  vags,  who  pilfer  and 
beg  and  bilk,  and  die  in  their  rancid  rags.  The 
loafers  at  bridge-whist  games,  the  loafers  at 
purple  teas,  the  hand-painted  stall-fed  dames, 
are  chains  on  the  workers'  knees.  The  women 
who  cook  and  sew,  the  women  who  manage 
homes,  who  have  no  desire  to  grow  green  hair 
on  enameled  domes,  how  noble  and  good  they 
seem,  how  wholesome  and  sane  their  aim,  com 
pared  with  that  human  scream,  the  brass-mount 
ed,  stall-fed  dame! 


141 


LITERATURE 

1LIKE  a  rattling  story  of  whiskered  bucca 
neers,  whose  ships  are  black  and  gory,  who 
cut  off  people's  ears.  A  yarn  of  Henry  Morgan 
warms  up  my  jaded  heart,  and  makes  that  ancient 
organ  feel  young  and  brave  and  smart.  I  like  de 
tective  fiction,  it  always  hits  the  spot,  however 
poor  in  diction,  however  punk  in  plot;  I  like  the 
sleuth  who  follows  a  clue  o'er  hill  and  vale,  until 
the  victim  swallows  his  medicine  in  jail.  I  like  all 
stories  ripping,  in  which  some  folks  are  killed, 
in  which  the  guns  go  zipping,  and  everyone  is 
thrilled.  But  when  I  have  some  callers,  I  hide 
those  books  away,  those  good  old  soul  enthral- 
lers  which  make  my  evenings  gay.  I  blush  for 
them,  by  jingo,  and  all  their  harmless  games; 
I  talk  the  highbrow  lingo,  and  swear  by  Henry 
James.  When  sitting  in  my  shanty,  to  "  have 
my  picture  took,"  I  hold  a  work  by  Dante,  or 
other  heavy  book.  But  when  the  artist's  van 
ished,  I  drop  those  dippy  pomes,  old  Dante's 
stuff  is  banished  —  I  reach  for  Sherlock  Holmes. 


142 


NURSING  GRIEF 

I  KNOW  not  what  may  be  your  woe,  how 
deep  the  grief  you  nurse,  but  if  you  bid  the 
blamed  thing  go,  it's  likely  to  disperse.  If  you 
would  say,  "  Cheap  grief,  depart!  "  you  soon 
might  dance  and  sing;  instead,  you  fold  it  to 
your  heart,  or  lead  it  with  a  string.  Oh,  every 
time  I  go  outdoors,  I  meet  some  mournful  men, 
who  talk  about  their  boils  or  sores,  of  felon  or 
of  wen.  Why  put  your  misery  in  words,  and 
thus  your  woe  prolong?  'Twere  best  to  talk 
about  the  birds,  which  sing  their  ragtime  song; 
or  of  the  cheerful  clucking  hens,  which  guard 
their  nests  of  eggs;  that  beats  a  tale  of  corns  or 
wens,  of  mumps  or  spavined  legs.  We  go 
a-groaning  of  our  aches,  of  damaged  feet  or 
backs,  and  nearly  all  our  pains  are  fakes,  when 
we  come  down  to  tacks.  We  talk  about  finan 
cial  ills  when  we  have  coin  to  burn  —  and  if  we 
wish  for  dollar  bills,  there's  lots  of  them  to  earn. 
We  cherish  every  little  grief,  when  we  should 
blithely  smile;  and  if  a  woe's  by  nature  brief, 
we  string  it  out  a  mile.  Oh,  let  us  cease  to 
magnify  each  trifling  ill  and  pain,  and  wear  a 
sunbeam  in  each  eye,  and  show  we're  safe  and 


143 


THE  IDLE  RICH 

I'M  fond  of  coin,  but  I  don't  itch  to  be  among 
the  idle  rich,  who  have  long  green  to  burn; 
their  wealth  I  could  not  well  employ,  for  I  could 
never  much  enjoy  the  bone  I  did  not  earn.  Oh, 
every  coin  of  mine  is  wet  with  honest,  rich,  trans 
parent  sweat,  until  it  has  been  dried;  it  repre 
sents  no  sire's  bequest,  no  buried  miser's  treasure 
chest,  no  "  multi's  "  pomp  and  pride.  I  grind 
my  anthem  mill  at  home,  and  every  time  I  make 
a  pome,  I  take  in  fifty  cents;  I  get  more  pleasure 
blowing  in  this  hard-earned,  sweat-stained  slice 
of  tin,  than  do  the  wealthy  gents.  Their  coin 
comes  easy  as  the  rain,  it  represents  no  stress  or 
strain,  no  toil  in  shop  or  den;  they  use  their 
wealth  to  buy  and  sell,  like  taking  water  from 
a  well;  the  hole  fills  up  again.  We  do  not 
value  much  the  thing,  which,  like  an  everlasting 
spring,  wells  up,  year  after  year;  if  you'd  appre 
ciate  a  bone,  you  have  to  earn  it  with  a  groan, 
and  soak  it  with  a  tear.  I'd  rather  have  the 
rusty  dime  for  which  I  labored  overtime,  and 
sprained  a  wing  or  slat,  than  have  the  large  and 
shining  buck  that  Fortune  handed  me,  or  Luck; 
get  wise,  rich  lad,  to  that. 


144 


PASSING  THE  HAT 

PASSING  the  hat,  passing  the  hat!  Some 
one  forever  gets  busy  at  that !  Oh,  it  seems 
useless  to  struggle  and  strain,  all  our  endeavor 
is  hopeless  and  vain;  when  we  have  gathered  a 
small,  slender  roll,  hoping  to  lay  in  some  cord- 
wood  or  coal,  hoping  to  purchase  some  flour  and 
some  spuds,  hoping  to  pay  for  the  ready  made 
duds,  hoping  to  purchase  a  bone  for  the  cat,  some 
one  comes  cheerfully  passing  the  hat!  Passing 
the  hat  that  the  bums  may  be  warm,  passing  the 
hat  for  some  noble  reform,  passing  the  hat  for 
the  fellows  who  fail,  passing  the  hat  to  remodel 
the  jail,  passing  the  bonnet  for  this  or  for  that, 
some  one  forever  is  passing  the  hat!  Dig  up 
your  bundle  and  hand  out  your  roll,  if  you  don't 
do  it  you're  lacking  a  soul!  What  if  the  feet 
of  your  children  are  bare?  What  if  your  wife 
has  no  corset  to  wear?  What  if  your  granny 
is  weeping  for  shoes?  What  if  the  grocer's  de 
manding  his  dues?  Some  one  will  laugh 
at  such  logic  as  that,  some  one  who's  merrily 
passing  the  hat!  Passing  the  hat  for  the  pink 
lemonade,  passing  the  hat  for  a  moral  crusade, 
passing  the  hat  to  extinguish  the  rat  —  some  one 
forever  is  passing  the  hat! 


145 


GOING  TO  SCHOOL 


I  HATE  to  tool  my  feet  to  school,"  we 
•!•  hear  the  boy  confessin';  "  I'd  like  to  play 
the  livelong  day,  and  dodge  the  useful  lesson. 
The  rule  of  three  gives  pain  to  me,  old  Euclid 
makes  me  weary,  the  verbs  of  Greece  disturb 
my  peace,  geography  is  dreary.  I'll  go  and 
fish ;  I  do  not  wish  to  spend  my  lifetime  school 
ing;  I  do  not  care  to  languish  there,  and  hear 
the  teacher  drooling."  His  books  he  hates,  his 
maps  and  slates,  and  all  the  schoolhouse  litter; 
he  feels  oppressed  and  longs  for  rest,  his  sorrows 
make  him  bitter.  The  years  scoot  on  and  soon 
are  gone,  for  years  are  restless  friskers;  trie 
schoolboy  small  is  now  grown  tall,  and  has 
twelve  kinds  of  whiskers.  "  Alas,"  he  sighs, 
"  had  I  been  wise,  when  I  was  young  and  sassy, 
I  well  might  hold,  now  that  I'm  old,  a  situation 
classy.  But  all  the  day  I  thought  of  play,  and 
fooled  away  my  chances,  and  here  I  strain,  with 
grief  and  pain,  in  rotten  circumstances.  I'm 
always  strapped;  I'm  handicapped  by  lack  of 
useful  knowledge;  through  briny  tears  I  view  the 
years  I  loafed  in  school  and  college! 


146 


NOT  WORTH  WHILE 

THE  night  of  death  will  soon  descend;  a 
few  short  years  and  then  the  end,  and 
perfect  rest  is  ours;  forgotten  by  the  "busy  throng, 
we'll  sleep,  while  seasons  roll  along,  beneath 
the  grass  and  flowers.  Our  sojourn  in  this  world 
is  brief,  so  why  go  hunting  care  and  grief,  why 
have  a  troubled  mind?  And  what's  the  use  of 
getting  mad,  and  making  folks  around  us  sad, 
by  saying  words  unkind?  Why  not  abjure  the 
base  and  mean,  why  not  be  sunny  and  serene, 
from  spite  and  envy  free?  Why  not  be  happy 
while  we  may,  and  make  our  little  earthly  stay 
a  joyous  jamboree?  We're  here  for  such  a 
little  while!  And  then  we  go  and  leave  the 
pile  for  which  we  strive  and  strain;  worn  out 
and  broken  by  the  grind,  we  go,  and  leave  our 
wads  behind  —  such  effort's  all  in  vain.  We 
break  our  hearts  and  twist  our  souls  acquiring 
large  and  useless  rolls  of  coins  and  kindred 
things,  and  when  we  reach  St.  Peter's  Town, 
they  will  not  buy  a  sheet-iron  crown,  or  cast-off 
pair  of  wings. 


147 


MISREPRESENTATION 


I  BOUGHT  a  pound  of  yellow  cheese,  the 
other  day,  from  Grocer  Wheeze.  And  as 
he  wrapped  it  up  he  cried,  "  In  this  fine  cheese 
I  take  much  pride.  It's  made  from  Jersey  cream 
and  milk,  and  you  will  find  it  fine  as  silk;  it's 
absolutely  pure  and  clean,  contains  no  dyes  or 
gasolene,  it's  rich  and  sweet,  without  a  taint, 
doggone  my  buttons  if  it  ain't.  Oh,  it  will  chase 
away  your  woe,  and  make  your  hair  and  whis 
kers  grow."  I  took  it  home  with  eager  feet, 
impatient  to  sit  down  and  eat,  for  I  am  fond 
of  high-class  cheese,  which  with  my  inner  works 
agrees.  But  that  blamed  stuff  was  rank  and 
strong,  for  it  had  been  on  earth  too  long.  My 
wife,  a  good  and  patient  soul,  remarked,  "  Bring 
me  a  ten-foot  pole,  before  you  do  your  other 
chores,  and  I  will  take  that  cheese  out  doors. 
Before  it's  fit  for  human  grub  we'll  have  to  stun 
it  with  a  club."  What  does  a  sawed-off  grocer 
gain  by  such  a  trick,  unsafe,  insane?  And  what 
does  any  merchant  make  by  boosting  some 
atrocious  fake?  Yet  every  day  we're  buying 
junk  which  proves  inferior  and  punk,  although 
it's  praised  to  beat  the  band;  such  things  are 
hard  to  understand. 


148 


MAN  OF  GRIEF 

I  NOW  am  bent  and  old  and  gray,  and  I  have 
come  a  doleful  way.  A  son  of  sorrow  I 
have  been,  since  first  I  reached  this  world  of 
sin.  Year  after  year,  and  then  repeat,  all  kinds 
of  troubles  dogged  my  feet;  they  nagged  me 
when  I  wished  to  sleep  and  made  me  walk  the 
floor  and  weep.  I  had  all  troubles  man  can 
find  —  and  most  of  them  were  in  my  mind. 
When  I  would  number  all  the  cares  which  gave 
me  worry  and  gray  hairs,  I  can't  remember  one 
so  bad  that  it  should  bother  any  lad.  And 
often,  looking  back,  I  say,  "  I  wonder  why  I 
wasn't  gay,  when  I  had  youth  and  strength  and 
health,  and  all  I  lacked  on  earth  was  wealth? 
I  wonder  why  I  didn't  yip  with  gladness  ere  I 
lost  my  grip?  My  whole  life  long  I've  wailed 
and  whined  of  cares  which  lived  but  in  my 
mind.  The  griefs  that  kept  me  going  wrong 
were  things  that  never  came  along.  The  cares 
that  furrowed  cheek  and  brow  look  much  like 
hop-joint  phantoms  now.  And  now  that  it's 
too  late,  almost,  I  see  that  trouble  is  a  ghost, 
a  scarecrow  on  a  crooked  stick,  to  scare  the 
gents  whose  hearts  are  sick." 


149 


MELANCHOLY  DAYS 


r  I  4  HE  melancholy  days  have  come,  the  sad- 
*  dest  of  the  year,  when  you,  determined 
to  be  glum,  produce  the  flowing  tear,  when  you 
refuse  to  see  the  joys  surrounding  every  gent, 
and  thus  discourage  other  boys,  and  stir  up  dis 
content.  A  grouch  will  travel  far  and  long 
before  its  work  is  done;  and  it  will  queer  the 
hopeful  song,  and  spoil  all  kinds  of  fun.  Men 
start  downtown  with  buoyant  tread,  and  things 
seem  on  the  boom;  then  you  come  forth  with 
blistered  head,  and  fill  them  up  with  gloom. 
There'd  be  no  melancholy  days,  our  lives  would 
all  be  fair,  if  it  were  not  for  sorehead  jays  who 
always  preach  despair.  We'd  shake  off  every 
kind  of  grief  if  Jonah  didn't  come,  the  pessi 
mist  who  holds  a  brief  for  all  things  on  the  bum. 
So,  if  you  really  cannot  rise  above  the  sob  and 
wail,  and  see  the  azure  in  the  skies,  and  hear  the 
nightingale,  let  some  dark  cave  be  your  abode, 
where  men  can't  hear  your  howl,  and  let  your 
comrades  be  the  toad,  the  raven,  and  the  owl. 


MIGHT  BE  WORSE 

THE  window  sash  came  hurtling  down  on 
Kickshaw's  shapely  head  and  neck;  it 
nearly  spoiled  his  toilworn  crown,  and  made  his 
ears  a  hopeless  wreck.  Then  Kickshaw  sat  and 
nursed  his  head,  a  man  reduced  to  grievous  pass ; 
yet,  with  a  cheerful  smile,  he  said,  "  I'm  glad  it 
didn't  break  the  glass."  He  might  have  ripped 
around  and  swore,  till  people  heard  him  round 
a  block,  or  kicked  a  panel  from  the  door,  or 
thrown  the  tomcat  through  the  clock;  he  might 
have  dealt  in  language  weird,  and  made  the 
housewife's  blood  run  cold,  he  might  have  raved 
and  torn  his  beard,  and  wept  as  Rachel  wept 
of  old.  But  Kickshaw's  made  of  better  stuff, 
no  tears  he  sheds,  no  teeth  he  grinds;  when  dire 
misfortune  makes  a  bluff,  he  looks  for  comfort, 
which  he  finds.  And  so  he  bears  his  throbbing 
ache,  and  puts  a  poultice  on  his  brain,  and  says, 
"  I'm  glad  it  didn't  break  that  rich,  imported 
window  pane."  It  never  helps  a  man  to  beef, 
when  trouble  comes  and  knocks  him  lame; 
there's  solace  back  of  every  grief,  if  he  will 
recognize  the  same. 


151 


MODERATELY  GOOD 


A  LOAD  of  virtue  will  never  hurt  you,  if 
modestly  it's  borne;  the  saintly  relic  who's 
too  angelic  for  week  days,  makes  us  mourn.  The 
gloomy  mortal  who  by  a  chortle  or  joke  is  deeply 
vexed,  the  turgid  person  who's  still  disbursin'  the 
precept  and  the  text,  is  dull  and  dreary,  he  makes 
us  weary,  we  hate  to  see  him  come;  oh,  gent  so 
pious,  please  don't  come  nigh  us  —  your  creed 
is  too  blamed  glum!  The  saint  who  mumbles, 
when  some  one  stumbles,  "  That  man's  forever 
lost,"  is  but  a  fellow  with  streak  of  yellow,  his 
words  are  all  a  frost.  Not  what  we're  saying, 
as  we  go  straying  adown  this  tinhorn  globe,  not 
words  or  phrases,  though  loud  as  blazes,  will 
gain  us  harp  and  robe.  It's  what  we're  doing 
while  we're  pursuing  our  course  with  other  skates, 
that  will  be  counted  when  we  have  mounted  the 
ladder  to  the  Gates.  A  drink  of  water  to  tramps 
who  totter  with  weakness  in  the  sun  will  help  us 
better  than  text  and  letter  of  sermons  by  the 
ton.  So  let  each  action  give  satisfaction,  let 
words  be  few  and  wise,  and,  after  dying,  we'll 
all  go  flying  and  whooping  through  the  skies. 


152 


THE  GIRL  GRADUATE 

IN  school,  academy  and  college  stands  forth 
the  modern  cultured  girl,  her  lovely  head  so 
stuffed  with  knowledge  it  fairly  makes  her  tresses 
curl.  We  all  lean  back  in  admiration  when 
she  stands  up  to  make  her  speech,  the  finest  prod 
uct  of  the  nation,  the  one  serene,  unblemished 
peach.  Behold  her  in  her  snowy  garments,  the 
pride,  the  honor  of  her  class !  A  malediction  on 
the  varmints  who  say  her  learning  cuts  no  grass ! 
"  She  hasn't  learned  to  fry  the  mutton,  she's  not 
equipped  to  be  a  wife;  she  couldn't  fasten  on  a 
button,  to  save  her  sweet  angelic  life !  With  all 
her  mighty  fund  of  learning,  she's  ignorant  of 
useful  chores ;  she  cannot  keep  an  oil  stove  burn 
ing  so  it  won't  smoke  us  out  of  doors.  The  man 
she  weds  will  know  disaster,  his  dreams  of  home 
and  love  will  spoil;  she  cannot  make  a  mustard 
plaster,  or  put  a  poultice  on  a  boil."  Avaunt, 
ye  croakers,  skip  and  caper,  or  we'll  upset  your 
apple-carts!  The  damsel  rises  with  her  paper 
on  "  Old  Greek  Gods  and  Modern  Arts."  So 
pledge  her  in  a  grapejuice  flagon!  Who  cares 
if  she  can  sew  or  bake?  She's  pretty  as  a  new 
red  wagon,  and  sweeter  than  an  old  plum  cake. 


THE  BYSTANDER 


1ST  AND  by  my  window  alone,  and  look  at 
the  people  go  by,  pursuing  the  shimmering 
bone,  which  is  so  elusive  and  shy.  Pursuing 
the  beckoning  plunk,  and  no  one  can  make  them 
believe  that  rubles  and  kopecks  are  junk,  vain 
baubles  got  up  to  deceive.  Their  faces  are 
haggard  and  sad,  from  weariness  often  they  reel, 
pursuing  the  succulent  scad,  pursuing  the  wan 
dering  wheel.  And  many  are  there  in  the 
throng  who  have  all  the  money  they  need,  and 
still  they  go  racking  along,  inspired  by  the 
demon  of  greed.  "  To  put  some  more  bucks  in 
the  chest,"  they  sigh,  as  they  toil,  "  would  be 
grand;  "  the  beauty  and  blessing  of  rest  is  some 
thing  they  don't  understand.  We  struggle  and 
strain  all  our  years,  and  wear  out  our  bodies 
and  brains,  and  when  we  are  stretched  on  our 
biers,  what  profit  we  then  by  our  pains?  The 
lawyers  come  down  with  a  whoop,  and  rake  in 
our  bundle  of  scrip,  and  plaster  a  lien  on  the 
coop  before  our  poor  orphans  can  yip.  I  stand 
at  my  window  again,  and  see  the  poor  folks  as 
they  trail,  pursuing  the  yammering  yen,  pursu 
ing  the  conquering  kale;  and  sorrow  is  filling  my 


154 


breast,  regret  that  the  people  won't  know  the 
infinite  blessing  of  rest,  that  solace  for  heartache 
and  woe. 


155 


MEDICINE  HAT 

THE  tempests  that  rattle  and  kill  off  the 
cattle  and  freeze  up  the  combs  of  the 
roosters  and  hens,  that  worry  the  granger,  whose 
stock  is  in  danger  —  the  mules  in  their  stables, 
the  pigs  in  their  pens  —  the  loud  winds  that  frolic 
like  sprites  with  the  colic  and  carry  despair  to 
the  workingman's  flat,  the  wild  raging  blizzard 
that  chills  a  man's  gizzard,  they  all  come 
a-whooping  from  Medicine  Hat.  When  men 
get  together  and  note  that  the  weather  is  fixing 
for  ructions,  preparing  a  storm,  they  cry:  "  Julius 
Caesar!  The  square-headed  geezer  who's  run 
ning  the  climate  should  try  to  reform!  The 
winter's  extensive  and  coal's  so  expensive  that 
none  can  keep  warm  but  the  blamed  plutocrat! 
It's  time  that  the  public  should  some  weather 
dub  lick!  It's  time  for  a  lynching  at  Medicine 
Hat!  "  And  when  the  sun's  shining  we  still  are 
repining.  "  This  weather,"  we  murmur,  "  is  too 
good  to  last;  just  when  we're  haw -hawing 
because  we  are  thawing  there'll  come  from  the 
Arctic  a  stem  winding  blast;  just  when  we  are 
dancing  and  singing  and  prancing,  there'll  come 


156 


down  a  wind  that  would  freeze  a  stone  cat;  just 
when  we  are  hoping  that  winter's  eloping,  they'll 
send  us  a  package  from  Medicine  Hat!  " 


157 


FLETCHERISM 

I  READ  a  screed  by  Brother  Fletcher,  on  how 
we  ought  to  chew  our  grub;  I  said,  "  It's 
sensible,  you  betcher!  I'll  emulate  that  thought 
ful  dub.  No  more  like  some  old  anaconda,  I'll 
swallow  all  my  victuals  whole;  Fll  eat  the  sort 
of  things  I'm  fond  o',  but  chew  them  up  with 
heart  and  soul."  And  now  I'm  always  at  the 
table,  I  have  no  time  to  do  my  chores;  the  horse 
is  starving  in  the  stable,  the  weeds  are  growing 
out  o'  doors.  My  wife  says,  "  Say,  you  should 
be  doing  some  work  around  this  slipshod  place." 
I  answer  her,  "  I'm  busy  chewing  —  canst  see 
the  motions  of  my  face?  "  I  have  no  time  to  hoe 
the  taters,  I  have  no  time  to  mow  the  lawn; 
though  chewing  like  ten  alligators,  I'm  still 
behind,  so  help  me,  John!  I  chew  the  water  I 
am  drinking,  I  chew  the  biscuit  and  the  bun; 
I'll  have  to  hire  a  boy,  I'm  thinking,  to  help  me 
get  my  chewing  done.  Some  day  they'll  bear 
me  on  a  stretcher  out  to  the  boneyard,  where 
they  plant,  and  send  my  teeth  to  Brother 
Fletcher,  to  make  a  necklace  for  his  aunt. 


158 


FATHER  TIME 

TIME  drills  along,  and,  never  stopping, 
winds  up  our  spool  of  thread;  the  time  to 
do  our  early  shopping  is  looming  just  ahead.  It 
simply  beats  old  James  H.  Thunder  how  time 
goes  scooting  on;  and  now  and  then  we  pause 
and  wonder  where  all  the  days  have  gone. 
When  we  are  old  a  month  seems  shorter  than 
did  a  week  in  youth;  the  years  are  smaller  by 
a  quarter,  and  still  they  shrink,  forsooth.  This 
busy  world  we  throw  our  fits  in  will  soon  be 
ours  no  more;  time  hurries  us,  and  that  like 
blitzen,  toward  another  shore.  So  do  not  make 
me  lose  a  minute,  as  it  goes  speeding  by ;  I  want 
to  catch  each  hour  and  skin  it  and  hang  it  up  to 
dry.  A  thousand  tasks  are  set  before  me, 
important,  every  one,  and  if  you  stand  around 
and  bore  me,  I'll  die  before  they're  done.  Oh, 
you  may  go  and  herd  together,  and  waste  the 
transient  day,  and  talk  about  the  crops  and 
weather  until  the  roosters  lay,  but  I  have  work 
that  long  has  beckoned,  and  any  Jim  or  Joe  who 
causes  me  to  lose  a  second,  I  look  on  as  a  foe. 


159 


FIELD  PERILS 

THE  farmer  plants  his  field  of  corn  —  the 
kind  that  doesn't  pop  —  and  hopes  that  on 
some  autumn  morn  he'll  start  to  shuck  his  crop. 
And  shuck  his  crop  he  often  does,  which  is 
exceeding  queer,  for  blights  and  perils  fairly 
buzz  around  it  through  the  year.  I  think  it 
strange  that  farmers  raise  the  goodly  crops  they 
do,  for  they  are  scrapping  all  their  days  against 
a  deadly  crew.  To  plant  and  till  will  not  suf 
fice;  the  men  must  strain  their  frames,  to  kill  the 
bugs  and  worms  and  mice,  and  pests  with  Latin 
names.  The  cut  worms  cut,  the  chinchbugs 
chinch,  the  weevil  weaves  its  ill,  and  other  pests 
come  up  and  pinch  the  corn  and  eat  their  fill. 
And  then  the  rainworks  go  on  strike,  and  gloom 
the  world  enshrouds,  and  up  and  down  the 
burning  pike  the  dust  is  blown  in  clouds.  And 
if  our  prayers  are  of  avail,  and  rain  comes  in  the 
night,  it  often  brings  a  grist  of  hail  that  riddles 
all  in  sight.  And  still  the  farmers  raise  their 
crops,  and  nail  the  shining  plunk;  none  but  the 
kicker  stands  and  yawps,  and  what  he  says  is 
bunk.  If  all  men  brooded  o'er  their  woes,  and 
looked  ahead  for  grief,  that  gent  would  starve 
who  gaily  goes  to  thresh  the  golden  sheaf. 


160 


JOY  COMETH 


1SAT  and  sighed,  with  downcast  head,  my 
heart  consumed  with  sorrow,  and  then  my 
Aunt  Jemima  said:  "  I'm  going  home  tomor 
row!  "  I'd  feared  that  she  would  never  leave, 
her  stay  would  be  eternal,  and  that's  what  made 
me  pine  and  grieve,  and  say,  "  The  luck's  infer 
nal!  "  I  thought  my  dark  and  gloomy  skies  no 
sunshine  e'er  would  borrow,  then  Aunt  Jemima 
ups  and  cries,  "I'm  going  home  tomorrow! 
Thus  oft  the  kindly  gods  confound  the  kickist 
and  the  carkist,  and  joy  comes  cantering  around 
just  when  things  seem  the  darkest.  We  all  have 
aunts  who  come  and  stay  until  their  welcome's 
shabby,  who  eat  our  vittles  day  by  day,  until 
the  purse  is  flabby;  and  when  we  think  they'll 
never  go,  or  let  us  know  what  peace  is,  they  up 
and  dissipate  our  woe  by  packing  their  valises. 
The  darkest  hour's  before  the  dawn,  and  when 
your  grief's  intensest,  it  is  a  sign  'twill  soon  be 
gone,  not  only  hence,  but  hencest. 


161 


LIVING  TOO  LONG 

I  WOULD  not  care  to  live,  my  dears,  much 
more  than  seven  hundred  years,  if  I  should 
last  that  long;  for  I  would  tire  of  things  in  time, 
and  life  at  last  would  seem  a  crime,  and  I  a 
public  wrong.  Old  Gaffer  Goodworth,  whom 
you  know,  was  born  a  hundred  years  ago,  and 
states  the  fact  with  mirth ;  he's  rather  proud  that 
he  has  hung  around  so  long  while  old  and  young 
were  falling  off  the  earth.  But  when  his  boast 
ful  fit  is  gone,  a  sadness  comes  his  face  upon, 
that  speaks  of  utter  woe ;  he  sits  and  broods  and 
dreams  again  of  vanished  days,  of  long  dead 
men,  his  friends  of  long  ago.  There  is  no  lone 
liness  so  dread  as  that  of  one  who  mourns  his 
dead  in  white  and  wintry  age,  who,  when  the 
lights  extinguished  are,  the  other  players  scat 
tered  far,  still  lingers  on  the  stage.  There  is  no 
solitude  so  deep  as  that  of  him  whose  friends, 
asleep,  shall  visit  him  no  more;  shall  never  ask, 
"  How  do  you  stack,"  or  slap  him  gaily  on  the 
back,  as  in  the  days  of  yore.  I  do  not  wish  to 
draw  my  breath  until  the  papers  say  that  Death 
has  passed  me  up  for  keeps;  when  I  am  tired  I 
want  to  die  and  in  my  cosy  casket  lie  as  one  who 


162 


calmly  sleeps.  When  I  am  tired  of  dross  and 
gold,  when  I  am  tired  of  heat  and  cold,  and 
happiness  has  waned,  I  want  to  show  the  neigh 
bor  folk  how  gracefully  a  man  can  croak  when 
he's  correctly  trained. 


163 


FRIEND  BULLSNAKE 

THESE  sunny  days  bring  forth  the  snakes 
from  holes  in  quarries,  cliffs  and  brakes. 
The  gentle  bullsnake,  mild  and  meek,  sets  forth 
his  proper  prey  to  seek;  of  all  good  snakes  he  is 
the  best,  with  high  ambitions  in  his  breast;  he 
is  the  farmer's  truest  friend,  because  he  daily 
puts  an  end  to  mice  and  other  beasts  which  prey 
upon  that  farmer's  crops  and  hay.  He  is  most 
happy  when  he  feasts  on  gophers  and  such 
measly  beasts;  and,  being  six  or  eight  feet  high, 
when  stood  on  end,  you  can't  deny  that  forty 
bullsnakes  on  a  farm  are  bound  to  do  the  vermin 
harm.  The  bullsnake  never  hurts  a  thing;  he 
doesn't  bite,  he  doesn't  sting,  or  wrap  you  in  his 
slimy  folds,  and  squeeze  you  till  he  busts  all 
holds.  As  harmless  as  a  bale  of  hay,  he  does 
his  useful  work  all  day,  and  when  at  night  he 
goes  to  rest,  he's  killed  off  many  a  wretched  pest. 
And  yet  the  farmers  always  take  a  chance  to  kill 
this  grand  old  snake.  They'll  chase  three  miles 
or  more  to  end  the  labors  of  their  truest  friend. 
They'll  hobble  forth  from  beds  of  pain  to  hack 
a  bullsnake's  form  in  twain,  and  leave  him  man 
gled,  torn  and  raw  —  which  shows  there  ought 
to  be  a  law. 


164 


DOUGHNUTS 

1SEEK  the  high-class  eating  joint,  when  my 
old  stomach  gives  a  wrench,  and  there  the 
waiters  proudly  point  to  bills  of  fare  got  up  in 
French.  I  order  this,  and  order  that,  in  eager 
ness  my  face  to  feed,  and  oftentimes  I  break  a 
slat  pronouncing  words  I  cannot  read.  And  as 
I  eat  the  costly  greens,  prepared  by  an  imported 
cook,  to  other  times  and  other  scenes  with  rem 
iniscent  eyes  I  look.  My  mother  never  was  in 
France,  no  foreign  jargon  did  she  speak,  but 
how  I  used  to  sing  and  dance  when  she  made 
doughnuts  once  a  week!  Oh,  they  were  crisp 
and  brown  and  sweet,  and  they  were  luscious 
and  sublime,  and  I  could  stand  around  and  eat 
a  half  a  bushel  at  a  time.  The  doughnuts  that 
our  mothers  made!  They  were  the  goods,  they 
were  the  stuff;  we  used  to  eat  them  with  a 
spade  and  simply  couldn't  get  enough.  And 
when  I  face  imported  grub,  all  loaded  down  with 
Choctaw  names,  I  sigh  and  wish  I  had  a  tub  of 
doughnuts,  made  by  old  time  dames.  I  do  not 
care  for  fancy  frills,  but  when  the  doughnut  dish 
appears,  I  kick  my  hind  feet  o'er  the  thills,  and 
whoop  for  joy,  and  wag  my  ears. 


165 


THE  ILL  WIND 

THE  cold  wet  rain  kept  sloshing  down,  and 
flooded  yard  and  street.  My  uncle  cried: 
"  Don't  sigh  and  frown!  It's  splendid  for  the 
wheat!  "  I  slipped  and  fell  upon  the  ice,  and 
made  my  forehead  bleed.  "  Gee  whiz!  "  cried 
uncle,  "  this  is  nice!  Just  what  the  icemen 
need!  "  A  windstorm  blew  my  whiskers  off 
while  I  was  writing  odes.  My  uncle  said: 
44  Don't  scowl  and  scoff  —  'twill  dry  the  muddy 
roads!  "  If  fire  my  dwelling  should  destroy,  or 
waters  wash  it  hence,  my  uncle  would  exclaim, 
with  joy:  "You  still  have  got  your  fence!  " 
When  I  was  lying,  sick  to  death,  expecting  every 
day  that  I  must  draw  my  final  breath,  I  heard 
my  uncle  say,  4*  Our  undertaker  is  a  jo,  and  if 
away  you  fade,  it  ought  to  cheer  you  up  to 
know  that  you  will  help  his  trade."  And  if  we 
study  uncle's  graft,  we  find  it  good  and  fair; 
how  often,  when  we  might  have  laughed,  we 
wept  and  tore  our  hair!  Such  logic  from  this 
blooming  land  should  drive  away  all  woe;  the 
thing  that's  hard  for  you  to  stand,  is  good  for 
Richard  Roe. 


166 


APPROACH  OF  SPRING 


T 


HE 


will  soon  be  here;  the  snow  will 


spring 

disappear;  the  hens  will  cluck,  the  colts 
will  buck,  as  will  the  joyous  steer.  How  sweet 
an  April  morn !  The  whole  world  seems  reborn ; 
and  ancient  men  waltz  round  again  and  laugh 
their  years  to  scorn.  And  grave  and  sober 
dames  forsake  their  quilting  frames,  and  cut  up 
rough,  play  blind  man's  buff,  and  kindred  cheer 
ful  games.  The  pastors  hate  to  preach;  the 
teachers  hate  to  teach;  they'd  like  to  play  base 
ball  all  day,  or  on  the  bleachers  bleach.  The 
lawyer  tires  of  law;  the  windsmith  rests  his  jaw; 
they'd  fain  forget  the  toil  and  sweat,  and  play 
among  the  straw.  The  spring's  the  time  for 
play ;  let's  put  our  work  away,  with  joyous  spiels 
kick  up  our  heels,  e'en  though  we're  old  and 
gray.  You  see  old  Dobbin  trot  around  the 
barnyard  lot,  with  flashing  eye  and  tail  on  high, 
his  burdens  all  forgot.  You  see  the  muley  cow 
that's  old  and  feeble  now,  turn  somersaults  and 
prance  and  waltz,  and  stand  upon  her  brow. 
The  rooster,  old  is  he,  and  crippled  as  can  be, 
yet  on  his  toes  he  stands  and  crows  "  My 


Country,  'Tis  of  Thee."  Shall  we  inspired 
galoots  have  less  style  than  the  brutes?  Oh,  let 
us  rise  and  fill  the  skies  with  echoing  toot-toots. 


168 


STUDYING  BOOKS 


WITH  deep  and  ancient  tomes  to  toil,  and 
burn  the  midnight  Standard  oil  may  seem 
a  job  forbidding;  but  it's  the  proper  thing  to  do, 
whene'er  you  have  the  time,  if  you  would  have 
a  mind  non-skidding.  If  one  in  social  spheres 
would  shine,  he  ought  to  cut  out  pool  and  wine, 
and  give  some  time  to  study;  load  up  with  wis 
dom  to  the  guards  and  read  the  message  of  the 
bards  from  Homer  down  to  Ruddy.  How  often 
conversation  flags,  how  oft  the  weary  evening 
drags,  when  people  get  together,  when  they  have 
sprung  their  ancient  yawps  about  the  outlook  of 
the  crops,  the  groundhog  and  the  weather.  How 
blest  the  gent  who  entertains,  who's  loaded  up 
his  active  brains  with  lore  that's  worth  repeating, 
the  man  of  knowledge,  who  can  talk  of  other 
things  than  wheat  and  stock  and  politics  and 
eating !  Our  lives  are  lustreless  and  gray  because 
we  sweat  around  all  day  and  think  of  naught 
but  lucre;  and  when  we're  at  our  inglenooks  we 
never  open  helpful  books,  but  fool  with  bridge 
euchre.  Exhausted  by  the  beastly  grind 


or 


we  do  not  try  to  store  the  mind  with  matters 


169 


worth  the  knowing;  our  lives  are  spent  in  hunt 
ing  cash,  and  when  we  die  we  make  no  splash, 
and  none  regrets  our  going. 


170 


STRANGER  THAN  FICTION 


IT'S  strange  that  people  live  so  long,  remaining 
healthy,  sound  and  strong,  when  all  around 
us,  everywhere,  the  germs  and  microbes  fill  the 
air.  The  more  we  read  about  the  germs,  in 
technical  or  easy  terms,  the  stranger  does  it  seem 
that  we  have  so  far  dodged  eternity.  No  won 
der  a  poor  mortal  squirms;  all  things  are  full  of 
deadly  germs.  The  milk  we  drink,  the  pies  we 
eat,  the  shoes  we  wear  upon  our  feet,  are  haunts 
of  vicious  things  which  strive  to  make  us  cease 
to  be  alive.  And  yet  we  live  on  just  the  same, 
ignore  the  germs,  and  play  our  game.  Well, 
that's  just  it;  we  do  not  stew  or  fret  o'er  things 
we  cannot  view.  If  germs  were  big  as  hens  or 
hawks,  and  flew  around  our  heads  in  flocks, 
we'd  just  throw  up  our  hands  and  cry:  "  It  is 
no  use  —  it's  time  to  die!  "  The  evils  that  we 
cannot  see  don't  cut  much  ice  with  you  and  me. 
A  bulldog  by  the  garden  hedge,  with  seven  kinds 
of  teeth  on  edge,  will  hand  to  me  a  bigger  scare 
than  all  the  microbes  in  the  air.  So  let  us  live 
and  have  our  fun,  and  woo  and  wed  and  blow 
our  mon,  and  not  acknowledge  coward  fright  of 
anything  that's  out  of  sight. 


171 


THE  GOOD  DIE  YOUNG 


BESIDE  the  road  that  leads  to  town  the 
thistle  thrives  apace,  and  if  you  cut  the 
blamed  thing  down,  two  more  will  take  its  place. 
The  sunflowers  flourish  in  the  heat  that  kills  the 
growing  oats;  the  weeds  keep  living  when  the 
wheat  and  corn  have  lost  their  goats.  The  roses 
wither  in  the  glare  that  keeps  the  prune  alive, 
the  orchards  fail  of  peach  and  pear  while  cheap 
persimmons  thrive.  The  good  and  useful  men 
depart  too  soon  on  death's  dark  trip;  they  just 
have  fairly  made  a  start  when  they  must  up  and 
skip.  A  little  cold,  a  little  heat  will  quickly  kill 
them  off;  a  little  wetting  of  their  feet,  a  little 
hacking  cough;  they're  tender  as  the  blushing 
rose  of  evanescent  bloom;  too  quickly  they  turn 
up  their  toes  and  slumber  in  the  tomb.  And 
yet  the  world  is  full  of  scrubs  who  don't  know 
how  to  die,  a  lot  of  picayunish  dubs,  who 
couldn't,  if  they'd  try.  Year  after  year,  with 
idle  chums,  they  hang  around  the  place,  until 
at  last  their  age  becomes  a  scandal  and  disgrace. 
And  thus  the  men  of  useful  deeds  die  off,  while 
no-goods  thrive;  you  can't  kill  off  the  human 
weeds,  nor  keep  the  wheat  alive. 


172 


DISCONTENT 

THE  man  who's  discontented,  whose  temper's 
always  frayed,  who  keeps  his  shanty 
scented  with  words  that  are  decayed,  would  do 
as  much  complaining  if  all  the  gods  on  high  upon 
his  head  were  raining  ambrosia,  gold,  and  pie. 
The  man  who  busts  his  gallus  because  his  house 
is  cheap,  would  rant  if  in  a  palace  he  could  high 
wassail  keep.  The  vexed  and  vapid  voter  who 
throws  a  frequent  fit  because  his  neighbors  motor 
while  he  must  hit  the  grit,  would  have  as  many 
worries,  his  soul  would  wear  its  scars,  if  he  had 
seven  surreys  and  twenty  motor  cars.  The  man 
who  earns  his  living  by  toiling  in  the  ditch,  whose 
heart  is  unforgiving  toward  the  idle  rich,  who 
hates  his  lot  so  humble,  his  meal  of  bread  and 
cheese,  would  go  ahead  and  grumble  on  downy 
beds  of  ease.  Contentment  is  a  jewel  that  some 
wear  in  the  breast,  and  life  cannot  be  cruel  so 
long  as  it's  possessed!  This  gem  makes  all 
things  proper,  the  owner  smiles  and  sings ;  it  may 
adorn  a  pauper,  and  be  denied  to  kings. 


1FE  is  fading 
brow 
love 


'on  my 


gray,  as  you 


SILVER  THREADS 


me  now 


love  me  when  I'm  old,  and  my  temper's  on  the 
blink,  and  I  sit  around  and  scold  till  I  drive  the 
folks  to  drink?  When  I  have  the  rheumatiz, 
and  lumbago,  and  repeat,  and  the  cusswords 
fairly  sizz  as  I  nurse  my  swollen  feet;  when  a 
crutch  I  have  to  use,  since  my  trilbys  are  so  lame 
that  they  will  not  fit  my  shoes,  will  you  love  me 
just  the  same?  When  the  gout  infests  my  toes, 
and  all  vanished  are  my  charms,  will  you  kiss 
me  on  the  nose,  will  you  clasp  me  in  your  arms? 
Silver  threads  are  in  the  gold,  life  will  soon  have 
run  its  lease;  I'd  be  glad  if  I  were  told  that  your 
love  will  still  increase  when  my  high  ambition 
fails,  and  my  hopes  are  all  unstrung,  and  I  tell 
my  tiresome  tales  of  the  days  when  I  was  young ; 
when  I  sit  around  the  shack  making  loud  and 
dismal  moan,  of  the  stitches  in  my  back,  and  my 
aching  collar  bone;  when  the  asthma  racks  my 
chest  so  I  cannot  speak  a  word,  will  you  fold 
me  to  your  breast,  saying  I'm  your  honeybird? 


174 


When  I'm  palsied,  stiff  and  sere,  when  I'm 
weary  of  the  game,  tell  me,  O  Jemima  dear,  will 
you  love  me  just  the  same? 


175 


MOVING  ON 

WE  foolish  folk  are  discontented  with  things 
where'er  we  chance  to  dwell.  "  The 
air,"  we  say,  "  is  sweeter  scented  in  some  far 
distant  dale  or  dell."  And  so  we  pull  up  stakes 
and  travel  to  seek  the  fair  and  promised  land, 
and  find  our  Canaan  is  but  gravel,  a  wilderness 
of  rocks  and  sand.  "  Across  the  hills  the  fields 
are  greener,"  we  murmur,  "  and  the  view  more 
fair;  the  water  of  the  brooks  is  cleaner,  and  fish 
grow  larger  over  there."  And  so  we  leave  our 
pleasant  valley,  from  all  our  loving  friends  we 
part,  and  o'er  the  stony  hills  we  sally,  to  reach 
a  land  that  breaks  the  heart.  "  There's  gold  in 
plenty  over  yonder,"  we  say,  "  and  we  shall 
seek  the  mines."  Then  from  our  cheerful  homes 
we  wander,  far  from  our  fig  trees  and  our  vines; 
a  little  while  our  dreams  we  cherish,  and  think 
that  we  can  never  fail;  but,  tired  at  last,  we 
drop  and  perish,  and  leave  our  bones  upon  the 
trail.  How  happy  is  the  man  whose  nature  per 
mits  him  to  enjoy  his  home,  who,  till  compelled 
by  legislature,  declines  in  paths  afar  to  roam! 
There  is  no  region  better,  fairer,  than  that  home 


176 


region  that  you  know;  there  are  no  zephyrs 
sweeter,  rarer,  than  those  which  through  your 
galways  blow. 


177 


THE  OLD  PRAYER 

WHEN  the  evening  shadows  fall,  often 
times  do  I  recall  other  evenings,  far 
away,  when,  aweary  of  my  play,  I  would  climb 
on  granny's  knee  (long  since  gone  to  sleep  has 
she),  clasp  my  hands  and  bow  my  head,  while 
the  simple  lines  I  said,  "  Now  I  lay  me  down  to 
sleep,  I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep."  Jour 
neyed  long  have  I  since  then,  in  this  sad,  gray 
world  of  men;  I  have  seen  with  aching  heart, 
comrades  to  their  rest  depart;  friends  have  left 
me,  one  by  one,  for  the  shores  beyond  the  sun. 
Still  the  Youth  enraptured  sings,  and  the  world 
with  gladness  rings,  but  the  faces  I  have  known 
all  are  gone,  and  I'm  alone.  All  alone,  amid 
the  throng,  I,  who've  lived  and  journeyed  long. 
Loneliness  and  sighs  and  tears  are  the  wages  of 
the  years.  Who  would  dread  the  journey's  end, 
when  he  lives  without  a  friend?  Now  the  sun 
of  life  sinks  low;  in  a  little  while  I'll  go  where 
my  friends  and  comrades  wait  for  me  by  the 
jasper  gate.  Though  the  way  be  cold  and  stark, 
I  shall  murmur,  in  the  dark,  "  Now  I  lay  me 
down  to  sleep,  I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep." 


178 


INTO  THE  SUNLIGHT 


OH,  cut  out  the  vain  repining,  cease  thinking 
of  dole  and  doom!  Come  out  where  the 
sun  is  shining,  come  out  of  the  cave  of  gloom! 
Come  out  of  your  hole  and  borrow  a  package  of 
joy  from  me,  .and  say  to  your  secret  sorrow, 
"  I've  no  longer  use  for  thee!  "  For  troubles, 
which  are  deluding,  are  timorous  beasts,  I  say; 
they  stick  to  the  gent  who's  brooding,  and  flee 
from  the  gent  who's  gay.  The  gateways  of 
Eldorados  are  open,  all  o'er  the  earth;  come  out 
of  the  House  of  Shadows,  and  dwell  in  the 
House  of  Mirth.  From  Boston  to  far  Bob- 
caygeon  the  banners  of  gladness  float;  oh,  grief 
is  a  rank  contagion,  and  mirth  is  the  antidote. 
And  most  of  our  woes  would  perish,  or  leave  us, 
on  sable  wings,  if  only  we  didn't  cherish  and 
coddle  the  blame  fool  things.  Long  since  would 
your  woes  have  scampered  away  to  their  native 
fogs,  but  they  have  been  fed  and  pampered  like 
poodles  or  hairless  dogs.  And  all  of  these  facts 
should  teach  you  it's  wise  to  be  bright  and  gay; 
come  out  where  the  breeze  can  reach  you,  and 
blow  all  your  grief  away. 


179 


BLEAK  DAYS 

THE  clouds  are  gray  and  grim  today,  the 
winds  are  sadly  sighing;  it  seems  like  fall, 
and  over  all  a  sheet  of  gloom  is  lying.  The 
dreary  rain  beats  on  the  pane,  and  sounds  a  note 
of  sorrow;  but  what's  the  odds?  The  genial 
gods  will  bring  us  joy  tomorrow.  We  have  the 
mumps,  the  doctor  humps  himself  around  to  cure 
it;  we're  on  the  blink  and  often  think  we  simply 
can't  endure  it;  to  all  who  list  we  groan,  I  wist, 
and  tell  a  hard-luck  story;  but  why  be  vexed? 
Week  after  next  we'll  all  be  hunkadory.  The 
neighbor  folks  are  tiresome  blokes,  they  bore  us 
and  annoy  us;  with  such  folks  near  it's  amply 
clear  that  no  one  can  be  joyous;  things  would 
improve  if  they  would  move  —  we  really  do  not 
need  them;  but  let's  be  gay!  They'll  move 
away,  and  worse  ones  will  succeed  them.  The 
world  seems  sad,  sometimes,  my  lad,  and  life  is 
a  disaster ;  but  do  not  roar ;  for  every  sore  tomor 
row  brings  a  plaster.  The  fool,  he  kicks  against 
the  pricks,  all  optimism  scorning;  the  wise  man 
goes  his  way  —  he  knows  joy  cometh  in  the 
morning. 


180 


THE  GIVERS 


THE  great,  fine  men  are  oft  obscure;  they 
have  no  wide,  resounding  fame,  that 
experts  warrant  to  endure  until  the  finish  of  the 
game.  Old  Clinkenbeard  is  such  a  man,  and 
though  he  has  no  store  of  yen,  he's  always  doing 
what  he  can  to  help  along  his  fellowmen.  He 
has  no  millions  to  disburse,  but  when  he  meets  a 
hungry  guy,  he  digs  a  quarter  from  his  purse, 
which  buys  the  sinkers  and  the  pie.  The  gifts 
of  bloated  millionaires  mean  nothing  of  a  sacri 
fice;  they  sit  around  in  easy  chairs  and  count 
the  scads  they  have  on  ice;  if  Croesus  gives  ten 
thousand  bucks  to  help  some  college  off  the  rocks, 
he  still  can  have  his  wine  and  ducks  —  he  has 
ten  million  in  his  box.  The  widow's  mite,  I  do 
not  doubt,  in  heaven  made  a  bigger  splash  than 
shekels  Pharisees  shelled  out  from  their  large 
wads  of  ill-gained  cash.  And  so  the  poor  man, 
when  he  breaks  the  only  William  in  his  pants, 
to  buy  some  widow  tea  and  cakes,  is  making 
angels  sing  and  dance.  In  fertile  soil  he's  sowing 
seeds,  and  he  shall  reap  a  rich  reward;  for  he 
who  gives  the  coin  he  needs,  is  surely  lending  to 
the  Lord. 


181 


GOOD  OLD  DAYS 


HOW  I  regret  the  good  old  days,  and  all 
the  pleasant,  happy  ways  now  perished 
from  the  earth !  No  more  the  worn  breadwinner 
sings,  no  more  the  cottage  rooftree  rings  with 
sounds  of  hearty  mirth.  The  good  old  days! 
The  cheerful  nights!  We  had  then  no  electric 
lights,  but  oil  lamps  flared  and  smoked ;  and  now 
and  then  they  would  explode  and  blow  the 
shanty  'cross  the  road,  and  sometimes  victims 
croaked.  The  windows  had  no  window  screens, 
there  were  no  books  or  magazines  to  make  our 
morals  lame;  we  used  to  sit  'round  in  the  dark 
while  father  talked  of  Noah's  ark  until  our  bed 
time  came.  No  furnace  or  steam  heating  plant 
would  make  the  cold  air  gallivant;  a  fireplace 
kept  us  warm;  the  house  was  full  of  flying  soot 
and  burning  brands,  and  smoke  to  boot,  whene'er 
there  was  a  storm.  No  telephones  then  made 
men  curse;  if  with  a  neighbor  you'd  converse, 
you  hoofed  it  fourteen  miles ;  the  girl  who  wished 
to  be  a  belle  believed  that  she  was  doing  well  if 
she  knew  last  year's  styles.  There'll  never  be 
such  days  as  those,  when  people  wore  no  under- 


182 


clothes,  and  beds  were  stuffed  with  hay,  when 
paper  collars  were  the  rage  —  oh,  dear,  delight 
ful  bygone  age,  when  we  were  young  and  gay! 


183 


THE  RAIN 


THE  clouds  are  banked  up  overhead,  the 
thunder  rips  and  roars;  the  lightning  hits 
old  Jimpson's  shed,  and  now  the  torrent  pours. 
The  crazy  hens  get  wet  and  mad,  the  ducks 
rejoice  and  quack;  the  patient  cow  looks  pretty 
sad,  and  humps  her  bony  back;  the  hired  man, 
driven  from  the  field,  for  shelter  swiftly  hies ;  old 
Pluvius  can  surely  wield  the  faucet  when  he 
tries.  In  half  an  hour  the  rain  is  done,  the 
growling  thunder  stops,  and  once  again  the  good 
old  sun  is  warming  up  the  crops.  In  half  an 
hour  more  good  is  wrought  to  every  human  cause, 
than  all  our  statesmen  ever  brought  by  passing 
helpful  laws.  Old  Pluvius  sends  down  the  juice, 
when  he's  blown  off  the  foam,  and  once  again 
high  hangs  the  goose  in  every  happy  home.  Not 
all  the  armies  of  the  earth,  nor  fleets  that  sail  the 
main,  can  bring  us  prizes  which  are  worth  a  half- 
hour's  honest  rain.  No  prophet  with  his  tongue 
or  pen,  no  poet  with  his  lyre,  can,  like  the  rain, 
bring  joy  to  men,  or  answer  their  desire.  The 
sunflowers  have  new  lease  of  life,  the  Johnnie 
jumpups  jump.  Now  I  must  go  and  help  my 
wife  to  prime  the  cistern  pump. 


184 


SOMETHING  TO  DO 

OH,  ye  who  complain  of  the  grind,  remem 
ber  these  words  (which  are  true ! )  :  The 
dreariest  job  one  can  find  is  looking  for  some 
thing  to  do!  Sometimes,  when  my  work  seems 
a  crime,  and  I'm  sorely  tempted  to  sob,  I  think 
of  the  long  vanished  time  when  I  was  out  hunting 
a  job.  I  walked  eighty  miles  every  day,  and 
climbed  forty  thousand  high  stairs,  and  people 
would  shoo  me  away,  and  pelt  me  with  inkstands 
and  chairs.  And  then,  when  the  evening  grew 
dark,  I  knew  naught  of  comfort  or  ease;  I  made 
me  a  bed  in  the  park,  for  supper  chewed  bark 
from  the  trees.  I  looked  through  the  windows 
at  men  who  tackled  their  oysters  and  squabs, 
and  probably  grumbled  again  because  they  were 
tired  of  their  jobs.  And  I  was  out  there  in  the 
rain,  with  nothing  to  eat  but  my  shoe,  and  filled 
with  a  maddening  pain  because  I  had  nothing  to 
do.  And  now  when  I'm  tempted  to  raise  the 
grand  hailing  sign  of  distress,  I  think  of  those 
sorrowful  days,  and  then  I  feel  better,  I  guess. 
I  go  at  my  labors  again  with  energy  vital  and 
new,  and  say,  as  I  toil  in  my  den,  "  Thank 
God,  I  have  something  to  do! 


185 


INDUSTRY 


HOW  doth  the  busy  little  bee  improve  each 
shining  hour!  It  honey  takes  from  every 
tree,  and  keeps  it  till  it's  sour.  Ah,  nothing  hin 
ders,  nothing  queers  its  labors  here  below ;  it  does 
not  always  cock  its  ears,  to  hear  the  whistle  blow. 
Wherever  honey  is  on  tap,  you  see  the  bumbler 
climb;  for  shorter  hours  it  doesn't  scrap,  nor 
charge  for  overtime.  It's  on  the  wing  the  live 
long  day,  from  rise  to  set  of  sun,  and  when  at 
eve  it  hits  the  hay,  no  chore  is  left  undone.  And 
when  the  bumblers  are  possessed  of  honey  by  the 
pound,  bad  boys  come  up  and  swat  their  nest, 
and  knock  it  to  the  ground.  The  store  they 
gathered  day  by  day  has  vanished  in  a  breath, 
and  so  the  bees  exclaim,  "  Foul  play!  "  and  sting 
themselves  to  death.  There  is  no  sense  in  making 
work  a  gospel  and  a  creed,  in  thinking  every  hour 
will  spoil  that  knows  no  useful  deed.  No  use 
competing  with  the  sun,  and  making  life  a  strain ; 
for  bees  —  and  boys  —  must  have  some  fun  if 
they'd  be  safe  and  sane. 


186 


WET  WEATHER 


A.L  spring  the  rain  came  down  amain,  and 
rills  grew  into  rivers;  the  bullfrogs  croaked 
that  they  were  soaked  till  mildewed  were  their 
livers.  The  fish  were  drowned,  and  in  a  swound 
reclined  the  muskrat's  daughter,  and  e'en  the 
snakes,  in  swamps  and  brakes,  hissed  forth 
"  There's  too  much  water!  "  And  all  my 
greens,  the  peas  and  beans,  that  I  with  toil  had 
planted,  a  sickly  host,  gave  up  the  ghost,  the 
while  I  raved  and  ranted.  The  dew  of  doom  hit 
spuds  in  bloom,  and  slew  the  tender  onion;  I 
viewed  the  wreck,  and  said,  "  By  heck!  "  and 
other  things  from  Bunyan.  All  greens  of  worth 
drooped  to  the  earth,  and  died  and  went  to 
thunder ;  but  useless  weeds  all  went  to  seeds  — 
no  rain  could  keep  them  under.  When  weather's 
dry,  and  in  the  sky  a  red-hot  sun  is  burning,  it 
gets  the  goats  of  corn  and  oats,  the  wheat  to 
wastage  turning;  the  carrots  shrink,  and  on  the 
blink  you  see  the  parsnips  lying,  but  weeds  still 
thrive  and  keep  alive,  while  useful  things  are 
dying.  It's  strange  and  sad  that  critters  bad, 
both  veg'table  and  human,  hang  on  so  tight,  while 
critters  bright  must  perish  when  they're  bloomin' ! 


187 


AFTER  STORM 

THE  wind  has  blown  the  clouds  away,  and 
now  we  have  a  perfect  day,  the  sun  is  saw 
ing  wood;  we  jog  along  'neath  smiling  skies,  the 
sounds  of  grief  no  more  arise,  and  every  gent  feels 
good.  Life  seems  a  most  delightful  graft  when 
nature  once  again  has  laughed,  dismissing  clouds 
and  gloom ;  we  find  new  charms  in  Mother  Earth, 
our  faces  beam  with  seemly  mirth,  our  whiskers 
are  in  bloom.  That  is  the  use  of  dreary  days,  on 
which  we're  all  inclined  to  raise  a  yell  of  bitter 
grief ;  they  fill  us  up  with  woe  and  dread,  so  when 
the  gloomy  clouds  are  sped,  we'll  feel  a  big  relief. 
That  is  the  use  of  every  care  that  fills  your  system 
with  despair,  and  rends  your  heart  in  twain;  for 
when  you  see  your  sorrow  waltz,  you'll  turn  three 
hundred  somersaults,  and  say  life's  safe  and  sane. 
If  there  was  not  a  sign  of  woe  in  all  this  verdant 
vale  below,  life  soon  would  lose  its  zest,  and  you 
would  straightway  roar  and  beef  because  you 
couldn't  find  a  grief  to  cuddle  to  your  breast.  So 
sunshine  follows  after  storm,  and  snow  succeeds 
the  weather  warm,  and  we  have  fog  and  sleet ;  all 
sorts  of  days  are  sliding  past,  and  when  we  size 
things  up  at  last,  we  see  life  can't  be  beat. 


188 


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